


Seeking Our Silence

by eyrist



Series: Melodies of The Soul [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, DJ!akira, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, akeshu - Freeform, dancer!akechi, shuake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyrist/pseuds/eyrist
Summary: As fires dance and a symphony of gunshots ring through the air like the notes of a song, it is between these worlds that Akira Kurusu and Goro Akechi find themselves.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro & Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Melodies of The Soul [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693363
Comments: 65
Kudos: 90





	1. The Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SOS Visual Thread](https://twitter.com/relictionism/status/1273697413446766592)

Tokyo was beautiful. Its buildings were tall and its lights were bright. Its streets littered with people and its life buzzed around the city. There wasn’t a second in which one wouldn’t be enamoured with Tokyo’s culture, Tokyo’s people— the pulse of its ever-present heartbeat, the beautiful music of its soul. Getting swept up in the mixing and matching of Tokyo’s everything was an experience some would call “other-worldly,” for it was in the Heart that was Tokyo that everything melted together.

The air was clear. The skies were blue. The fun was loud and the nights were louder. There were shops and arcades, lights that illuminated the streets and framed the hustle and bustle of the city. Deep within the labyrinth of the red light district, there was once a club filled with blinding reds and tantalising darkness, where the night lasted forever and bodies melted into one, big shadow. There was once a man who stood above it all, who jumped and bobbed his head to the beat of his drum, who made life dance at his fingertips, drank in adrenaline and heavy bass like he was born to.

There _was_.

Flipped on a dime, Tokyo was a monster.

It swallowed you into its unhinged, bloody jaw, chewed you up and spat you out with no rhyme, rhythm, nor reason, no mercy in its brutality. The alleys were lined with razor-sharp teeth, the darkness of the night like a blindfold over your eyes. Even with the neon that littered the streets, it felt more like stumbling in the dark and into waiting traps, the lights like a bait that lured you in deeper with each step. If you weren’t careful, Tokyo would eat you up.

And Tokyo loved to eat up innocent souls.

So, _listen_. It was your only defence. Hear the city’s heartbeat, heed the voices that travelled amongst its veins. If you knew how to listen, you knew when to speak.

Blindfolded, stumbling, but with ears pricked up and a voice that reached the masses, Akira Kurusu yelled into the void of Tokyo.

Blindfolded, stumbling, and followed by a past haunted by the wrong kind of people, Goro Akechi listened.

He listened until that voice went hoarse.

He listened until that voice had gone quiet.

He listened for the whispers that could lead back to him.

He listened for the secrets that Tokyo had to offer.

Tokyo had many. Goro Akechi had more.

And even still, the Joker was a wildcard that could end it all.


	2. Track 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey again !! trigger warnings for a panic attack starting "A shudder stuttered his breathing, his eyes closing tighter as he made to pull his knees to his chest." and ending at "The notes slipping through the white noise would make it end soon."

_Breathe. **Breathe**. _

Sometimes, he forgets he needs to, so he has to remind himself. It was only difficult to remember because of the was the way he focused on moving, the triple-time pounding of his heart against his chest, the life bursting from his movement and dancing as he crossed the floor. Perhaps most of all, it was difficult to remember breathing because of the dark eyes that followed his every step, every turn he made. It was difficult to remember that he needed air, when that gaze and that so very sweet and devious smile stole all the breath from his lungs anyway.

The way he played piano was always so warm, like he was in love with the very notes that he played into the air— a song, he once said, was for one dancer, and one dancer _only_. It was a melody that lilted into the air like it danced with him, guided the way he glided across the floor and made his steps feel light, _weightless_.  
The ballad itself was so very different to the type of music he unleashed into the darkness, fed to the mass of shadows and booze and sweat; It was slow, loving, a secret song for a secret moment in time saved just for them. In contrast to the overwhelming void that swallowed those who wandered into The Metaverse (wherein he found himself dancing in one too many times), the walls around him were a calming shade of grey, the light of dusk streaming in through the window left of the bed illuminating his skin as he danced. Right in front of him, the charming, funny, _incredibly_ dorky DJ sat at the keyboard, deft fingers dancing their own little waltz across the keys— eyes closed, lips curled into a content smile.

Keeping his gaze on the musician, he wondered if the two of them would ever dance a slow dance like that, like the adoring way he pressed the keys and hummed to the tune of his— _their_ —song. He wondered if the man would ever look at him with the same warmth and admiration in his eyes as it swept across the black and white keyboard. He wondered if the thin line they stood in front of had long disappeared behind them.

But that would too-quickly fall to the back of his head. Thoughts were the last thing drifting afloat within his mind in that moment. All he focused on was dancing to the melody Akira Kurusu stringed together for him, with their quiet, calming notes and a lingering warmth that pierced the core of his very soul.

Because, after all, he’d already stolen Goro Akechi’s heart. What left did he have to lose?

* * *

White noise.

If he focused hard enough, maybe he could still feel the way those long, slender fingers fit in the spaces between his own; How the warmth of his skin left fire blooming wherever they touched; What he looked like as he laid beside Goro within the pristine, white walls of his bedroom. Opening his eyes, the back of his tired mind half-expected to see that relaxed, tranquil face in front of his, asleep as the world calmed and quieted around them— but instead, all he would see was the sunlight casting a red and orange filter over the walls, his bedroom feeling barren and his bed feeling too big without the presence of a man with dark curls and a bright smile beside him.  
Mornings and waking up were a combination Goro found he looked forward to less and less with each day that passed, every time he registered that his eyes had cracked open and that his bed had too much space. It was more often than not that he found himself simply laying there and staring at the ceiling, willing his mind into a state of focus— And every single time was harder than the last, if not for how that familiar, comforting heat from that familiar, comforting body had been gone for months now, then because of the white noise that prevailed in his ears the _moment_ he was pulled from the depths of slumber.

Why did white noise have to follow after a song? Now, _that_ was his million-dollar question. Goro had gotten so used to never-ending music from listening to Joker, from relying on the man to never let his music die off until the sun peaked from beyond the horizons— Hearing silence instead of the next track flowing so smoothly in to fill the cracks was jarring, uncomfortable.. _Incorrect._

It was _deafening_.

Sitting up, he watched as the light bled onto his skin, dulled and exhausted eyes following the lines that distorted and bent with the curves of his arm, the folds in the sheets, the flickering tip of Mona’s tail. There was a muffled thought in the back of his head that made him reach his hand out to pet the cat, only to recoil halfway and drop it back onto the bed.

 _Don’t wake the cat_.

If he did, he’d sit there for another two hours to hug Mona close to his chest, and Gods knew he’d already tired the cat out the night before doing exactly that.  
So he sat up. Scrunched his eyes closed as the heels of his palms rubbed over what crust and dried tears painted his face. He breathed a deep breath in and exhaled an even deeper sigh out.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

 _Slowly_.

He let air flow into his lungs and tried to ignore the white noise stuck in his head.

Breathed.

Everything was okay.

He opened his eyes again, looked at Mona. At his own hands. At the little things scattered around his bedroom. Everything was in its place as things usually were, nothing had been touched and he was still there. It was going to be an okay morning. Goro was going to make sure he was going to have an okay morning.

He breathed. _Slow_. He was fine. He was _okay_.

 _Think of happy thoughts._

The class he taught two days ago. Their energy and spunk. He was happy to teach that class from start to finish. The group hug his students usually gave him was tight and comforting and more than warm due to the sweat that clung to their clothes and bodies, and he was ecstatic as that day went on.

_Okay.._

The nice dinner he and Ann and the rest of their little group went on. The katsudon they ordered was delicious. They laughed when Ryuji had a third bowl because of his big appetite, and they had to force Yusuke to put down his sketchpad and _eat_ because the man was thin enough as it was. Goro had the opportunity to momentarily confiscate the poor artist’s pencils, even. He laughed about it.

_Okay, good.._

The choreography he finished recently. He’d been so proud of that one. It was a slow ballad and he made a contemporary dance to it, the genre he was weakest at. He accomplished that!  
It was a lilting of guitar and voice. The bit of piano at the end, that was his favourite part. He loved dancing to it around the apartment, loved the spins he put in and the slow steps, how he spread his arms as if he were a bird about to take flight. He fell in love with the tranquillity blooming within his chest as he moved to it, the storm he felt he settled as the last, familiar note of the piano rang into the air.

Piano. He loved how the piano sounded. Dancing to it was like a reprieve, a sanctuary away from his usually fast-paced life. His fondness for it was as unexpected as finding himself in Leblanc on that day—the day that seemed so, _so_ long ago—and it was because of one man.

_Wait._

The man who saw him amongst a crowd of shadows.

 _Wait, **stop**_.

The man who played piano for him, gave him everything.

**_Stop it._ **

The man who he loved—

**_STOP THINKING ABOUT IT._ **

—who’d been gone for almost a year and a half now.

A shudder stuttered his breathing, his eyes closing tighter as he made to pull his knees to his chest. Goro faintly registered how his arms tightened around himself, how he’d begun shaking his head as thoughts began to fill his head despite his efforts to _stop it_. Mornings and waking up were a combination indeed.  
Thoughts of black curls. Fake glasses. Dark eyes that reflected the lights of Rainbow Bridge. Eyes that captured the warmth of the Sun. Eyes that stole all the colours from fireworks over still waters. Eyes that saw him. Eyes that didn’t see all of him. Eyes that promised him a million things. He breathed again. Heard his voice. His desperation. His fear. His music.

White noise.

He tried to _keep breathing_.

The white noise rang louder in his head.

The white noise engulfed his ears and closed around him.

Red eyes bled into his head. Long hair the same colour as his. A warm smile and even warmer hugs. The lullaby she sang to him before he fell asleep echoed beneath the high pitch ringing in his head. Fourteen days and nights of waiting for her, it felt like such an eternity. Long days staring at the dirty front door. Longer nights waiting for his mother to come get him as fists and kicks pummelled his body to the orphanage floor. He grabbed his neck as he felt himself choke, body shaking. His eyes squeezed shut harder. He had to _breathe_. He had to _keep breathing_.

_Just a little bit longer.._

His neck felt constricted.

_Just a little bit **more**. _

His chest felt tight.

_Hold on._

Too many things flashed in his head.

_FUCKING HOLD ON._

It was hard to breathe.

He couldn’t fucking **_breathe_**.

The white noise pierced his ears.

Loud.

_Too fucking loud._

He was drowning. 

As his world began plunging into unbearable, deafening white noise, Goro held himself.

He’ll be fine.

He’ll be _okay._

It was going to end soon.

The notes slipping through the white noise would make it end soon.

It felt like an eternity had come and passed before Goro heard the first few notes of that slow, loving ballad reach his ears. In the midst of the darkness and ringing he found himself lost in, he forced his hand to reach for that tether, that _light_ that came in the form of a piano— that which sung from his phone each morning, at the exact same time, as many times as it took.  
Even trapped within the state of his mind as it was, he forced himself to focus on the melody. The measures. The _tempo_. His frame shook, his senses numbed, and yet he choked himself as hard as he could to bring back even a sliver of his consciousness—Just as long as it was enough for him to take hold of the rapid, chaotic patterns in his breathing and place them within the hands of the song’s beats, that secret song that Akira had written for him.

He breathed to it. He inhaled shaky breaths and held it within his lungs. He exhaled only when he got to the parts he could. He repeated the patterns in time with the song’s measures, could hear the phantom of Akira’s gentle tone in the back of his head telling him to “ _breathe with the song_ ,” to _“follow my lead and breathe with me._ ”

_Inhale for four seconds._

He breathed in four of the notes in the melody.

_Hold it there for seven seconds._

Kept it in his chest for the next seven.

_Now breathe it out slowly, eight seconds._

And released it in a long exhale, waiting until the eighth note before he started all over again.

It always took a hefty amount of time before Goro mostly gathered himself again on mornings like this. Hell, with the time that’d passed, he figured this would become a rare enough (or at least, a _less-daily_ enough) occurrence as it was, but the mind was funny like that— It liked to hold onto things. _Bad_ things. Things that kept him up at night and things that made mornings all the more unbearable.  
Even still, he kept waking up. He kept living through it, _breathing_ through it. He’d hold onto the fragments that remained of Akira and use those to find him, search for the pillars that made Masayoshi Shido (his damn _father_ ) stand tall and knock them out one by one and brick by brick if he had to.

He would do it. He wasn’t alone in this. He just had to play it safe and take his time, for all good things came to those who waited, and Goro was a man who did nothing but cultivate his patience for the worse half of his years alive.

By the time Goro lifted his head from burying them into his knees, he felt the familiar sensation of purring and rubbing on his thigh, eyes casting over to the cat that’d (at some point) woken up and once more glued himself onto Goro’s side. Mona was sweet, and sometimes Goro thought that he knew (and understood) more than he let on, but he was glad to at least have the cat there, always ready and always patient.

With a final, shaky breath, he reached a hand out and scratched Mona behind his ear, his other to rub at the leftover tears that’d left wet streaks across his cheeks. Though his lips quivered, he curled them up into a small smile as Mona bulldozed his way onto Goro’s lap, the purrs and vibrations from the cat becoming more insistent the more Goro petted him.

To Mona, maybe, the fact that Goro could now give him the time of day to pet and scratch him meant that he could ask for as much attention as he could— Which, _okay_ , Goro could never deny those adorable, bright blue eyes that.

Still, he needed some breakfast in his system. He had class with Ann later.

Leaving Mona on his bed, Goro made quick work to gather his dance clothes and shower, greeting Ann in the kitchen when he emerged from their bathroom, fresh makeup and everything. On one of the barstools, he saw Mona curled up into a warm, little ball of fuzz and fur, most likely asleep once more as he sat on the seat next to him.

Once they finished with their sandwiches (because Ann didn’t know what else to make and Goro was a complete and utter disaster in the kitchen) they left Mona wet food and water and were on their way to Starlight Studio.

* * *

“ _Five, six, seven, eight!_ ”

 _“Insane inside, the danger gets me high—_ ”

Like many of his dances, Goro began with a kick forward as he stepped closer to the mirror, hands tangling in his hair immediately after as the lyrics sang into the studio. His movements were sharp, underlined the sensuality and danger shown in his choreography, as he stopped at each beat of the first two lines. With hips swaying slowly, one delicately-placed hand slithered upwards with his fingers mostly curled save for the index that pointed to the ceiling, his other hand sliding down to his neck, and all the while, he had his eyes opened even as half-lidded as they were.

Goro stopped closing his eyes a while ago.

* * *

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. His eyes darted around the office, at the floor-to-ceiling windows beside the large desk, at the front door to the right of him. He had five minutes, ten at most. He had to use them as best as he could.  
From his spot on one of the large, plush sofas, Goro gave one last once-over to the gold-lined double doors before he got to his feet. With steps light and quiet, he stepped closer and closer to the dark mahogany desk, a glance headed towards the windows he slowly approached as he settled completely behind the table.

There wouldn’t be much touching—at least not _now_ when he was pressed for time—but he could at least do a sweep over what contents the Prime Minister of Japan hid inside his office.

Getting onto his knees, he checked under the desk, a quiet “ _hmph_ ” leaving him once he set eyes on the small, red button situated to the right beneath the long drawer. Of _course_ , there would be an emergency button here. Goro almost would’ve been disappointed should there not have been.  
There were measures that had to be taken to ensure the Prime Minister was always safe, after all; His bodyguards forever ready. Those would be a problem, but Goro would find a way to deal with those at a later point in time, if he needed to. Though an accomplice would’ve helped him if ever, he was used to working alone, anyway.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it, not when he still had four minutes and counting.

It felt like second-nature to him when Goro began pulling open the drawers, quick to read over the contents of the small stack of papers he found before he’d closed them just as quickly. It was to be expected that nothing of much importance sat out in the open, most of the information he found being mostly about laws that were to be in place or schedules about summits and meetings Shido had planned or needed to attend. Still, that didn’t stop him from exploring the other drawers further, wanting to find something— _anything—_ that may be important in the long-run.  
It was at the bottommost drawer did he stop, even if it was for a second longer. He felt his heart sink into his stomach and his eyes widen as he stared back at the visage that sat within the photo, one of many judging by the stack it’d been placed upon.

* * *

_“Can’t help myself, God’s secrets I can’t tell—”_

With the hard-hitting beats, he placed his hands onto his chest, popped his torso inwards with his fingers splayed across the deep red of the sweater that fit tightly onto his body. As he lifted his head up, a finger slipped towards the smile curling up Goro’s lips, chin nodding downwards as he settled into a wide stance. He’d closed one eye in a wink before the song continued.

_“I love the smell of gasoline—”_

With the tips of his shoes sliding across the floor, Goro stepped to the right, arms raising as if he had wings.

_“I light the match to taste the heat.”_

When he settled to face the front once again, his wrists had crossed and lowered to behind his head.

_“I’ve always liked to play with fire.”_

Formed a gun with his fingers as his arm straightened forwards, and shot.

* * *

He glanced up at the door, awaiting footfalls to echo within his ears. When naught but dead silence rang back to him, Goro didn’t hesitate to try and pick up the topmost photo— The one that showed red eyes. Long, chestnut brown hair. A face far younger than he remembered. His mother’s visage was as lovely as ever, himself an almost mirror-reflection of her. Though Goro found himself softening the more he stared at the photo of his mother (who smiled brightly and wore a high school uniform) there was also a sceptical voice in the back of his head that repeated, “ _why?_ ”

Why did Shido keep a photo of her?

Why did Shido even have a photo of her from _her high school days_?

Why _the Hell_ did Shido keep it in his fucking office?

A series and strings of questions that began with “ _why?_ ”

As Goro looked down upon the stack, there was another photo of Minako Akechi, no less older than her in the one he held in his gloved hand: Bright, warm smile, long hair flowing in the wind, yet her demeanour and beauty contrasted the dark night that looked to be in front of a high-class restaurant, its red-orange lights from within bright and blurred behind her playfully-posed figure. When Goro tried to pick it up with his free hand and inspect it closer, though, he found that it was.. less _stuck_ and more _solidified_ into the other stack.

His lips downturned into a small frown, his brows knitting together. Grasping the _cube_ that formed the stack, he found that it was, indeed, a solid box disguised as a stack of photos, and when he’d lifted it up..

* * *

His back pressed against the mirrors, water bottle half-empty beside him as he caught his breath. Today’s set of classes had left him more winded than usual, but that was maybe because he didn’t get enough sleep the previous night; Or because he’s been pushing the limits of his body to handle twice the amount of work. Maybe it was because he just didn’t eat enough anymore, who the fuck knew anymore?  
All that Goro _did_ know, was that his muscles were sore and that his limbs felt like they weighed a ton each, his chest heaving up and down with every breath he forced into his lungs. He’d been keeping his eyes on the corner of the studio, stare blank and mostly-empty as a million and one thoughts flitted in and out of his mind. Would he hear that telltale ringtone again sometime soon? Would he have to run around Tokyo in the dead of night again?

 _Fuck_ , he needed more water. And rest. And a goddamn break from all of this. Dazedly, there was a small, almost _bitter_ , laugh that left his lips, head finally drooping down to stare at the grey of his sweatpants.

_How the Hell did he manage to do this for **years**? _

Maybe that would be a mystery to him for the rest of his life. After almost a year and a half ( _fifteen months_ ,) you start to lose just a _little_ hope that _maybe_ he’d come back, that _maybe_ he’s still alive— That, just fucking _maybe_ , this was a very long, very bad, and very _torturous_ nightmare that dragged on and on until he snapped his eyes open and saw tufts of black curls piled onto the pillows.

Goro closed his eyes for a few seconds, breaths even and shallow through his mouth. The hum of the studio’s air conditioner crept into his ears, the quietness of the large room something like how his bedroom sounded in the mornings.

_Maybe.._

Seconds came and went. Maybe minutes, even. When he’d reopened his eyes and lifted his head, he could only laugh again, a bitter sound bouncing off the grey walls.

 _Grey_ , just like Akira’s bedroom. What a joke he lived.

“Hi gummy bear!”

His eyes snapped towards the glass door, Ann’s cheerful and lively and _sweaty_ figure practically _bouncing_ towards him. With a lazy lift of his hand, he waved at her, the small smile on his lips just as tired as the look in his eyes. Still, that didn’t seem to deter the woman as she crashed onto his side, her bag and bottle clattering to the floor as she settled beside him.

“ _Gross_ ,” he groaned, feeling the slip and slide of her (perspirated) arms encircle his neck and shoulders. There was still a smile on his cheeks, though.

Pulling back, Ann gave his arm a weak punch, her lips curved up into an incredulous grin.

 _Okay, **ow**_.

Damn, he really _was_ sore, wasn’t he? That, or Ann had a stronger punch than she thought. Hell, maybe it was _both_.

“Are you just going to sit here all night or are you going to get changed?”

“For what?”

For a second, those bright, blue eyes widened in equal parts shock, betrayal, and incredulity— Goro could just read it in the way her lips parted and her hands readied another (weak) assault on his arm, laughing just a bit as he held his own hands up in defence.

“I’m kidding! I remember!” he laughed again, smile growing wider as he caught the pout already forming on Ann’s perfectly-curved lips, “I have my clothes here and everything, I promise!”

“You _better_! We’ve been planning this dinner for _weeks_!”

The sound of a zipper opening made his gaze fall onto Ann’s bag, then, as she displayed a set of her clothes folded up neatly— next to it, a gigantic (and by _gigantic_ , he meant that it took up _half_ of the space in her backpack) makeup bag.

“Look, shower first then I’m doing our makeup, okay?” Her hand went to his cheek, thumb sliding over the underside of his eyes. There was an inkling of something in how she looked at him, that same something present in the small smile decorating her features. _Sympathy_ , he guessed. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Well, Goro wouldn’t exactly deny that in entirety. He could only silently thank Ann as he nodded, eyes closed and feeling the warmth seep from her palm. _Truly_ , his best friend would be there for him, even for something as simple as making sure that he looked presentable because, well— Goro didn’t like going out without looking nice.

He would’ve been called _vain_ , maybe, but he wanted to keep up his appearances. Didn’t everyone?

“I’ve been—”

“ _At the gym_ , I know, but does it have to be late at night?”

That same hand slid down to his arm, squeezing his bicep immediately after. There wasn’t much pressure, but he appreciated the way she began massaging his muscles, anyway.

“You’re toned enough already, y’know.”

Goro heaved a sigh, smile pinned up his cheeks, still.

“It doesn’t hurt to get some more muscle in, don’t you think?”

He’ll pretend he didn’t see the flash of worry painting her eyes.

“Whether you’re at a gym or a club”—his stare snapped to hers at that—“I just worry. I know it’s just you trying to have something to do but..”

_It’s been so long already._

Those unspoken words hung in the air, a heavy weight settling between them. He thought it would sting less after all the time that’d passed, but fuck _him_ , he guessed.

“Tachibana says I’ve been making _some_ progress with the whole..” Goro gestured vaguely, hands falling down as soon as he’d held them up. “ _Akira_ thing.”

_A **different** Akira thing this time. _

It was almost funny how most of his visits to his therapist’s office involved Akira— from the beginning when it was because of their confusing relationship, to when Goro began having breakdowns because of his disappearance, of the _fear_ he held in his heart about his lover never returning.  
He’d definitely shown some type of progress with managing his breakdowns about that. Tachibana explained that it was a sort of trauma that latched onto Goro’s brain, the deep-seeded fear of being left due to his experiences with his mother. She’d guided him to figure out for himself that _that_ was the particular reason he’s always been just a tad bit clingy, just a tad more fearful of leaving and being left behind. To most people, having someone disappear on them would warrant concern and fear and the beginnings of trauma; To Goro, it entailed panic attacks at the very mention of the person ( _people_ ) that’d vanished from him.

While it would’ve been discouraging to tell Ann that he had a breakdown this morning about his lost lover and the memory of his mother, it was at least a step up from having them at multiple points throughout the day. He’s taken a hold of his emotions, slowly but surely, even if it only took fifteen months.

“For real, though, I’m okay.”

_As okay as I can be with everything that’s happened, at least._

“If you say so..” Ann trailed off, getting to her feet as she did. With one last look at him, she gave Goro a smile, encouragement in her eyes. “I trust you, but I’m always here for you, too, okay?”

His head bobbed into a single nod, lips pulling up at a corner.

“Thanks, Ann. Love you.”

“I love you too, gummy bear,” she said, and though it was followed by a giggle and a turn of her heel, Goro still felt the sincerity and care in her words— all until, “So stop talking like Ryuji, okay?”

He would’ve thrown his water bottle at her in retaliation, but Ann had already run out the door, laughing her ass off along the way.

* * *

If Ann was anything, she was a wonder with makeup. Goro felt more than nice— he felt _pretty_.  
Feeling pretty made him feel good, even as he rolled his shoulders back just once as they sat around a sizeable table.

He’d been glancing over his friends one by one, a contented smile on his lips at their antics: Yusuke had (once more) been stripped of the minimal art supplies he carried with him everywhere, was currently mourning the loss of an opportunity to sketch out their “joyful auras” as he put it; Shiho barely managed to catch her cup of tea from spilling over her girlfriend’s nice outfit, had apologised profusely even as Ann peppered her cheeks with kisses that left admiration and a nice flush across her face (to which, the rest of them faux-gagged at, all in good jest); Ryuji was, well, _being Ryuji._  
Goro had long accepted the fact that the blonde track team coach would be as he was until the rest of time—loud, obnoxious, and the mood-maker of their little band—and so wasn’t even surprised when he openly and visibly gawked at the attractive waitress that brought them their plates of sushi.

Seated around his friends, he laughed and smiled and joked along, only subtly ignoring the two empty seats at the end of their booth. The alcohol helped, though.

“I can’t _believe_ how obvious you are!” Ann practically yelled, hands holding side as she struggled to breathe in between her laughs and giggles.

“ _Look_ , she was for real _pretty_. I’m _single_! How’d ya expect me to react?”

“I believe she noticed you though, Ryuji.”

“ _Wh—_ Yusuke, y’should be backin’ me up here!”

A smile (one that Goro could only describe as _nostalgic_ ) crossed Yusuke’s lips, the artist to shake his head in that oh so graceful way that still left Goro and Ann _convinced_ that he was trained in some sort of formal dance.

“Unfortunately, the truth of the matter can’t be ignored.”

“She noticed,” Goro nodded.

“She _definitely_ saw you checking her out,” Ann followed up.

“She’s either creeped out, or _might_ be interested in your.. your _Ryuji charm_!” Shiho finalised, a wide grin stretched across her cheeks. It was a perfect all-out attack.

At their little jabs, Ryuji (not dressed in a bright graphic tee and ill-fitting jeans for once) darted his head between _them_ , and the same waitress that was strolling across the space of the restaurant, a tray of drinks balanced in one hand. Her smile was relaxed as she set them down at a table not too far from their own, and as their poor, loveless friend continued to stare on (to the point that some may have considered it creepy, if not for Ryuji’s Golden Retriever-esque aura) Goro’s already-wide grin stretched up to his ears as the waitress’ eyes fell onto Ryuji’s.

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t hold his laughter in anymore, the sound mixing in with the rest of the group’s as the waitress neared them.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked, dark chocolate eyes to Ryuji, voice pleasant and service industry-like in its professionality— and yet (because it was second-nature at this point) Goro noticed how she leaned towards him, just _slightly_ , arms hugging the tray close to her core.

Ryuji’s mouth opened and closed as he looked back up at the waitress, clearly searching for words yet never finding them. Whilst their friend suffered, Goro exchanged glances with Ann, their grins widening as the seconds passed in which Ryuji remained a hopeless, flustered idiot.  
It was like they read each other’s minds, Goro kicking Ryuji under the table as Ann jumped into the fray.

“ _Actually_ , miss..” Ann squinted at her nametag, eyes brightening more than they already were as the other blonde of their group suppressed a yelp at Goro’s kick. “ _Miss Yamamoto_! Our friend there wanted to ask you something!”

Amidst Shiho _trying_ (and failing) to keep her laughter to a minimum beside Ann, Goro heard the waitress hum curiously, her gaze falling back to the track team coach— Who glared at them as if they’d betrayed his trust, his _glory_. That didn’t stop the shit-eating grin from growing on Goro’s cheeks though.

As if _they_ weren’t enough, the waitress held a hand to her hip and shifted her weight between feet to make her hip pop out. The way she pushed the short, red hair away from her face (most definitely _flirtatiously_ ) made Goro lean towards the table in interest, wanting to see where this show would go next.

“I saw you looking at me,” she began, her tone catching on a confident edge that made Goro decide that, _yes_ , he liked this lady, “Like a _lot_. Unfortunately, sir, I can’t take my customers out on dates.”

And there was a small hiss beneath his breath, then, a low “ _ooooh_ ” following suit— But it got stuck on his tongue the moment he watched the redheaded waitress pull out a slip of paper from her pocket, casually tucking it into the space between Ryuji’s chest, and the dark blue button-up that hugged his frame.

“But I get out at nine and I’m off work on Mondays.”

Okay, Goro liked this lady a _lot_.

Her eyes glanced towards the rest of them, her smile seeming more mischievous with the close-to-red pink lipstick painted onto her lips. Once her gaze landed back on Ryuji, the man was still as stiff as a block of ice, eyes glancing between her and the paper she slipped into his shirt.

“Monday, maybe? I guess I’ll see you when I see you, mister..”

“ _Ryuji_!” the blonde finally said, voice maybe too loud for a bustling restaurant, but their group couldn’t care less— not when they snickered and kept from bursting out laughing just _yet_ , “Ryuji Sakamoto! I can do yo— _Monday_! Monday’s good!”

“ _Ai_! We got orders here!”

The waitress glanced over her shoulder, out towards one of the other waiters in front of a growing line of plates. With a final look back over to them, she bowed just slightly to excuse herself— But not before leaving Ryuji with a wink and a smile meant to seduce, before she was gone.

As the waitress walked away (with hips swaying, Goro noticed) Ann buried her face into Shiho’s shoulder, and Goro thought that it was basically _useless_ because of how loud her laughter rang within their booth— though Shiho herself wasn’t doing any better, her hands covering her mouth yet with shoulders shaking so much that she was undeniably only _barely_ keeping it together. From the end of the table, even Yusuke hid his laughter behind his palm, eyes closed with his long lashes fanning over his cheeks whilst he chuckled.

There were two voices missing here—a loud, teasing laughter from such a small girl, the hearty and full and warm chuckles from a man that embodied his stage name—but Goro chose to ignore that. Instead, he folded his hands beneath his chin and nodded towards the paper Ryuji hadn’t yet grabbed, lips curved up into a wide, teasing smile.

“Well? Are you going to check out what she gave you or not?” he laughed, would only chuckle louder when the blonde seemed to snap out of his daze and make for the paper stuck against his chest.

Goro saw the frantic determination and flustered discomposure rolled into one as Ryuji ran his eyes over the slip, again and again as if he didn’t believe what he saw the first, third, or fifth time around. It was only when the girls had stopped laughing (so loudly, at least) did he finally look up at them with this _light_ in his eyes, this familiar hope and joy that Goro almost felt nostalgic for.

“I got her number,” the man finally uttered, slumping back into his seat as he looked at each of them. With each jump his eyes made, Goro watched in amusement as his lips pulled up higher and higher, all until he sported that signature, bright Ryuji grin he was so well-known for. “I got her number!”

“And a date, it seems,” Yusuke added.

“Thanks to _us_!” Shiho snickered.

“Yeah, you’re _welcome_ , Ryuji.” Ann winked at him, as faux-serious as her voice was.

“Why’d y’guys have to do it like _that_ , though?!”

They’d been planning to have dinner all together for a good amount of time now, having to schedule around their lives and jobs to even make it possible before the big event Goro had the next week over. Ann had said that it was just a precursor of sorts, even if they were all going to attend it and see each other there anyway: A little celebration before Goro’s name _really_ spread through the entirety of Japan, and it was no understatement to say that he’d be the face of every newspaper and magazine soon enough.  
Ann and Ryuji (because it was _always_ Ann and Ryuji) started to bicker, even if it was all in jest. As Goro stuffed a maki into his mouth, he’d watch them, smile on his lips and all— and yet still, he couldn’t stop his eyes from glancing, just ever so often, to those two, empty seats at the end of their table: One next to _him_ , and the one next to Ryuji.

He knew that it was all just pure coincidence, really: the fact that their booth had seven seats. They were in the corner of the restaurant and the space was just enough for seven seats and not eight, unlike the other tables. It was pure happenstance that the empty spots on their couches were the spots two particular basically-siblings sat at, because Ann always sat next to Shiho and Ryuji was always between Yusuke and a little gremlin of a redhead, and beside Goro, a man that didn’t know when to cease his endless stream of terrible jokes and sweet whispers.  
But that didn’t stop his mind from prodding at the fact. It didn’t stop his head from conjuring the image of them there, seated beside them and teasing Ryuji and his soon-to-be date along with the group: Futaba would lead the teases, that spitfire confidence present in her voice when she’d taunt him about forgetting something important, or that his shirt would definitely be inside-out through the entire date; And then, there would be Akira, supporting his best friend but not being exempt at throwing a few jabs at him here and there, anecdotes of the past dates Ryuji had told him about ready to fire on his tongue.

Yes, he really could just about see them do that thing where Futaba and Akira looked into each other’s eyes for a second and a spark of a plan to faux-bully Ryuji even more passed between them. They always had this sort of telepathic understanding of each other’s antics that only _years_ of spending each other’s company with would brew, much like Goro and Ann with each other.

Ah, he was doing it again, wasn’t he?

Goro shook his head a bit (more to himself, before anyone noticed) and took a swig of the half-empty beer beside his plate. He’d enjoy this time with them, and he’d be _damned_ if he brought up the elephant in the room.  
Because the truth of the matter was, everyone noticed the two, empty seats. Everyone was thinking the exact same thing. They only chose to ignore it as Goro had, because the wounds hadn’t yet closed on their hearts, the void that their friends left when they disappeared still hadn’t been filled even with Yusuke’s art deals and Ryuji graduating into becoming an actual P.E. teacher soon— Or Ann getting more modelling gigs and Shiho moving up into becoming a local team’s regular physical therapist.

Goro knew that Ryuji still stared into space at times because he was thinking of what Akira would say in that moment, or he’d be reminiscing on the years they spent by each other’s side. Hell, they only got through high school at Shujin Academy (with all the gossip and bullying and borderline abuse) because they had each other to rely on. They’d been friends longer than Akira and Futaba have. Goro couldn’t count how many times Akira would go on his rare rambles about what he and the blonde did “ _this one time at Shujin”_ , or “ _when we did this at The Metaverse_.” Likewise, Ryuji always talked about Akira as if he were a hero in a comic book, of the little things the man had done to help “ _this stranger on the street_ ” or how “ _he saved my ass when he gave me my job at the club_.”

And of Yusuke? Where does Goro even start? Futaba had been everything to him aside from art: Futaba was his _muse_ for Gods’ sake! The number of pages he’s seen of sketches that portrayed the redhead were innumerable, the amount of small paintings that littered his old dorm room of the woman could even fill a whole gallery! Goro had seen Yusuke go into frenzy after frenzy to quickly capture the moments he had with the group, but he could say that they were nothing compared to the sketchbooks upon sketchbooks of Futaba that the artist had. Yusuke had even pointed out the pieces he’d finished thinking of his girlfriend, of which, Goro wouldn’t even have thought were inspired by Futaba until he explained them— And it was only _then_ that the picture became clear, that he saw where Yusuke was going.

To see the artist one day, hunched over a large canvas with a half-finished portrait of Futaba smiling in his atelier, spoke volumes enough as it was.

There was a feeling within Goro that ached in guilt for them. He’d sworn to find Akira (and in extension, Futaba) just over a year ago, and yet here he was. Shimomura ( _Nakura_ , rather) had already revealed his approximate location as the mountains in Nagano, but Goro still couldn’t _move_ yet. He knew that he could scour them down if he went to Nagano, but there were still eyes on his back, the looming figure of the Prime Minister himself watching his every move keeping him where he stood on the board— and if Goro found them, it would mean that _he_ did, too. Though a considerable amount of time had passed already, he was still stuck between the desires of his heart and _checkmate_.

Was this what Akira had felt? This feeling of being stuck between a rock and a hard place? Did he, too, yearn to fulfil his desires, yet the feeling of a chokehold around his neck stopped him from taking those steps? If so.. Well, Goro had a lot of possible apologising and hugging to do.

That was, if he ever found Akira at all.

A hand waving over his face brought him back to their table, to the present moment in which his friends looked at him with varying degrees of concern washing over their faces.

“You okay dude?” Ryuji had asked, settling back into his seat after snapping Goro out of it. Vaguely, he felt Ann’s hand on his shoulder, the beer bottle in his own as he looked back at her.

Raising his bottle, he shook his head, an easy smile coming up his cheeks as he did.

“I think I’m just starting to get drunk, you guys,” he laughed, fingers on his free hand fumbling with the charms hanging off his neck— a nervous habit that grew on him.  
Goro only hoped that his laughter was enough to convince them, even if it usually was— So imagine his surprise when Ann hugged his side and Yusuke’s face dimmed into a grim look. All of them, actually. He noticed the light slowly dissipate from their eyes as his own roamed the table.

Sorrow never fit their expressions, he thought.

“We miss them, too,” the artist voiced, even as quiet as it was among the buzz of the restaurant. Ryuji, beside him, nodded solemnly.

“I mean— It ain’t easy tryna ignore how it feels like we’re always missin’ two people here.”

Goro looked to the two seats again, letting his stare linger as a sigh slipped past his lips. Even Ann’s voice—pure and tangible sympathy and sadness lacing her every word—didn’t tear his gaze away from the spots.

“It’s been a year, Goro..” she sighed, hand rubbing over Goro’s back in slow circles meant to soothe, “And all of us promised we’d be here for each other, didn’t we? I’m not telling you or anyone here to lose hope, but..”

Silence hung in the air between the table, growing heavier with each second the unspoken implications she’d laid out for them rang into their heads. Goro had never once felt that he held a heavier burden with the loss of their friends than the rest of them, had always seen through those tiny cracks and crevices in each of his group’s masks— He just took the initiative to never bring them up when it wasn’t necessary.

But truly, their disappearance left more of a mark than he thought.

“We have to be realistic.”

His voice was the heavy hammer that, maybe _finally_ , brought them to reality.

Looking back to them, Goro noted their expressions, committed them to memory if he had to: the pained way Ryuji closed his eyes, brows furrowing down; The way Ann avoided looking at any of them, choosing instead to focus on the spot between her and Shiho’s plates; Perhaps unsurprisingly of all, the chuckle that spilled from Yusuke’s lips, a sound so melancholic and piercing that Goro could compare it to the song of one who mourned.

“This isn’t..” he continued to laugh, shoulders shaking. Goro wasn’t sure if it was because of his laughter or because he was close to the edge of sobbing. “This isn’t supposed to be how it ends, is it?”

It was always Yusuke that laughed in the midst of his sorrow, a coping mechanism Goro quickly caught onto when he’d first seen the artist after _they_ disappeared. The guilt that squeezed at his heart ached more.

“This wasn’t supposed to be how things ended!”

It was painful to keep watching Yusuke laugh, doubling into himself as he held his sides, head lolling down to hide his face from them. Ryuji put a hand to his back, mimicking Ann’s ministrations on Goro’s with a pat to the artist’s shoulder.

The words escaped Goro before he could even _think_.

“It isn’t,” he said, voice shaky as he gathered his wits— his _anger_. “And it _won’t_ be how it ends.”

Because he’ll find them. He’ll fucking hunt them down if he had to. He’ll punch Akira across the face for scaring him—scaring _them_ —and he’ll pinch Futaba’s ear until she yelped. He’ll drag them back and then they’ll figure this entire thing out together because _goddammit_ Goro always hated how Akira thought he had to do things by himself.

“I’m not one to break my promises. Even if it takes me _years_ , I’m going to find them.”

The group’s eyes snapped to him as he made his declaration, all but Ann having shock painting their features. He’d never shared any of his information with anyone but Nakura, but maybe the fact that he never gave up made her still in her seat, the rest of them silent.

“They branded him a terrorist—” Shiho interjected, all too suddenly after a moment of quiet letting Goro’s words settle within them.

“Yeah n’ it’s fuckin’ _bullshit_!”

“I—” Yusuke hiccupped, a hand wiping at one of his eyes as he looked at Goro, “I have to agree. It was quite suspicious when they went to arrest Akira for such outrageous reasons.”

“The Akira we know is anything _but_ what they said on the news!” Ann exclaimed, her resolve never shaken even if a few stray eyes went to her.

“So what’s yer’ plan?” Goro’s gaze landed on Ryuji, the determination in his voice almost palpable in the air around them, “N’ what do y’want us to do?”

* * *

Black.

The small, black button stared him in the face as Goro looked down into the drawer, a photo of his mother in one hand, a fake stack in the other. He had but a few seconds to run his eyes over the rest of the room, looking for any obvious signs of a secret door, or a trap one hidden under the carpeted floors. Still, he didn’t risk lingering any longer than he already was when he placed the stack and the photo back in the dresser, pressing the cube down onto the grooves in the wood that seemed specifically-carved for it.

He’d only finished shutting the drawer and half-ran, half-padded over to one of the tall bookshelves behind the couch he previously sat at when the double doors burst open— And with it, Shido’s (his _father’s_ ) return.

Goro had made an easy pose, feigned to make it seem as if he were looking over the numerous books on.. Japanese political history. When his eyes met Shido’s, he stopped a scowl from forming onto his lips, instead replacing it with a friendly smile.

Wordlessly, Shido had made his way over to his desk, Goro’s stare following his back until the man settled into the obnoxiously-large, plush office chair. The white folder he’d held, he tossed onto the surface of his table, gaze coming up to meet Goro’s once again.

“Next month.”

That made Goro’s body turn to face him then, fingers around his chin still. As Shido gestured towards the folder with a hand, the brunette approached him slowly— only picking it up and reading through the first of many pages when the prime minister had nodded in permission.

As his eyes ran over the contents of the papers, he trained his face to remain neutral, but curious. Child’s play.

“Next month, the world will finally know that you, Goro, are my son.”

Ah, yes. _That_. His _father_ (he damn-near hated calling Shido that) had been planning on finally announcing Goro’s existence to the rest of Japan for these past few months, and it seemed that it was finally coming to fruition. _Political gain_ , he had no doubt in his mind.

Goro had already imagined the headlines.

_“Prime Minister finds long-lost son!”_

_“Prime Minister adopts heir!”_

_“Masayoshi Shido, a great leader, an even greater father!”_

It already left a sour taste on his tongue just thinking about it.

Still, he read over the pre-made guest list, the catering menu, the itinerary. Shido had given him the benefit of choosing the theme of his.. _announcement party_ , so to speak, though it was basically the only thing he had control over in the entire thing.

Nakura had said that masks were his specialty. Why not add another layer to that, he thought.

“I’ll have you taken to the best tailor in Tokyo later, but before that, son”—Goro cringed, hiding it behind the faux-hopeful look in his eyes when he ever so briefly glanced up at Shido—“You have to make a speech!”

Goro wondered what excuses he could make if he punched Shido in the face right then and there. He wanted (so _badly_ ) to wipe that fake-kind smile off his goddamn cheeks.

“Won’t _you_ be announcing it, though?” he inquired, flipping back to the first page to read over the guest list Shido (or his advisors or whatever the fuck) had gathered: The politicians currently in power, some celebrities, more than a few CEO’s of conglomerates and corporations, as well as a few heads in the justice system. The works. Goro was basically sneaking his friends into the event anyway, though his eyes _did_ linger on one particular name on the list of officers and guards that would be watching over the entire thing— As well as that same name beside “Special Investigations Unit.”

“I will, I will,” Shido nodded, a content (read: _conniving_ ) smile on his lips, “But you have the honour of speaking to the guests that will attend, too.”

_Kissing your ass and showing my “utmost gratitude,” you mean._

Yeah, that was definitely what he wanted. In the back of his mind, he imagined smashing a champaign flute over Shido’s head during his speech.

“Well, I’m not much experienced in speeches, but I’ll give it my best shot writing one.”

A satisfied hum left Shido’s lips, nodding again as he closed his eyes. He already knew that Goro was a dancer, that he’d competed in circuits and competitions before, had risen to the top three in each— so, Goro thought, this would be the prime opportunity for him to introduce Goro to his advisors that would basically make his speech for him, just to ensure that it was as ass-kissing as he wanted it to be.

He would’ve groaned, annoyance lacing every note, but he would keep his cool here.

_Keep the mask on, keep the mask on, keep the mask on.._

“Well, I suppose I can think it over while I’m being measured. Will I be with the same driver”—he almost choked—“ _father_?”

“At the front of the building. I’ll have him be there in ten minutes.”

Goro set the folder back onto the desk, a grateful ( _fake_ ) smile on his lips.

“Then I should be going then,” he bowed his head, an act that made him want to gag each time, “Thank you, father.”

It’d taken three hours all in all to get Goro to the top tailor shop in Tokyo, have him pick out the styles and colours he so pleased, and then get him measured. When the prime minister’s driver dropped him off at the street of his apartment, Goro would only silently watch as the official vehicle sped off into whence it came— and when he was sure that the car was gone, he’d jogged up to his apartment, donned a dark hoodie and even darker pants, and then boarded the last train to Ikebukuro, all the while having a black mask covering his nose and lips.

* * *

“I hear you’re going to be at next week’s event.”

From his usual spot at the bar (second to the end, in front of the books) he took a sip from his coffee, a quiet hum saved for himself rumbling in his throat. Goro kept his eyes on the gloves on his hands, a finger tapping some nonsensical beat on the surface of the counter, as Makoto Nijima beside him simply looked down upon the bitter drink Boss had placed there minutes ago.

Leblanc was empty, save for them. Boss stepped out to have a cigarette, and for that, Goro was grateful.  
Perhaps choosing Leblanc as their rendezvous point wasn’t the best decision he’s ever made in his life, but Nijima frequently coming to his apartment would seem too suspicious, and seeing as the Kurusu case was put mostly in the back burner next to more pressing matters, he very well couldn’t come strolling in there whenever he so pleased. Besides, though he added his contributions here and there to the police in search for Akira, he wasn’t officially a detective anymore. To even get back onto his previous mantle, Goro would have to solve some big-name case, and he’d be damned if he caught Akira for the cops.

They were a means to an end, the limitless resources and access that they had at their disposal something that would be useful. Perhaps Goro could look into what crime syndicates Nakura had in his files, usher in a deal or two and a betrayal with a mob boss..

Well, that could wait.

“The Prime Minister’s big party, I mean,” Goro clarified, bringing the cup to his lips and sipping from it once more. He felt Nijima side-eye him as he set it back down onto its saucer (a quiet _clink_ resounding between them) and as the TV set atop Leblanc’s fridge droned on about a special announcement that Masayoshi Shido was going to make next Wednesday, he heard the officer clear her throat.

“I’d ask how you know about that, but it seems like you know everything, Akechi.”

Goro only gave her a lopsided smile, shoulders shrugging.

“I’m going to be standing guard inside the venue itself. That’s all they’ve told me so far.”

“Ah, then I suppose I’ll see you there.”

Again, that side-eye. It didn’t linger for too long though, not when Nijima turned to face him now, a furrow in her brow and a downturned quirk in her lip making it evident that she was going to start prying into this.

“Why?” she asked, a simple enough question as it was, it was still loaded with her cunning, the moves being set in her mind already. Goro asked himself why he never asked _her_ for a round of chess.

“I got an invitation, why else?”

That was a truth. Expectedly, it didn’t satisfy Nijima— not at all. He saw it when she began squinting at him, and though anyone would’ve shrivelled up from either Nijima’s glares _alone_ (she really _did_ grow up with Sae, after all) Goro saw the little flecks of umber in her eyes without that venom in them.

They had a.. complicated sort of relationship, one that they built in the little time that they spent in each other’s presence. In-between friendship and professionality in the conspiracies they attempted to uncover (as well as the deal that Goro had struck with her,) they couldn’t exactly call each other “ _friends_ ” though it wasn’t the whole truth to say that they were mere “ _accomplices_ ” either. In a way, Goro could say that he would give a fuck if she got into any harm, and though it might’ve still been a _maybe_ on because she was his one access to the police, it still rang true.

“What would _you_ be doing there..” he heard her mutter, low under her breath as she stared straight at him. Goro never really bothered to ask her if she knew that he always heard her little mumbles, but he made it clear that the question reached his ears when the lopsided smile on his lips tugged up higher.

“I’ll be attending as a guest. Maybe mingle a little, have a glass or two of champaign— _Dance_. Everything you do at a party, basically.”

He has to admit, hearing Nijima growl at his smartass comebacks brought him just a bit of amusement.

“Well, either way.. You’ll find out soon enough, Nijima.”

“ _Huh_.” It was a curt hum more than anything. “Did you hassle your contacts into getting you that invitation? Who’s so important that you have to infiltrate the Prime Minister’s party?”

The only response he gave her was that of a glance, a split-second peak. Whatever he told her, he told her because it had to do with the clues that they’d put together, things that they could tack onto the bulletin board of strings and photos and a map of Tokyo. Goro couldn’t really fault Nijima for assuming that this was, yet again, another thing that they would be on the lookout for— and maybe it wasn’t.  
Goro had recognised some of the names on the guest list that Shido gave him, owners of corporations and buildings wherein a certain thief had infiltrated before. If he could move along the floor and coax _something_ out of them, it would lead him and Nijima closer to the truth of what the _Hell_ was up with Akira coming in and out of random places— places that had no ties to each other, no obvious answers.

But, he guessed, that was the thrill of being a detective in the first place— Answers never came easy.

He’ll be sure to drive them out into the open, use the charm that he was so well-known for once upon a time ago.

* * *

_“I love to watch the castles burn, these golden ashes turn to dirt—”_

It was a good song. He had good tastes, but well, what else did he expect of Goro Akechi?

Raindrops pattered onto his bedroom window, the clouds from beyond and up above casting a gloomy filter onto the dark wood of his walls and floor. Picking up the long-empty coffee mug from the window sill, he padded out into the living room, already memorised each centimetre of the house’s layout with his feet. It was only inevitable when he’s lived there for so long already.

Even through the earbuds sitting within his ears, he heard that distant, continuous _clack, click, clack_ , a telltale sign that she was still either playing her games, or that she was tuning into the bugs she’d placed in her father’s café long ago.

He decided to refill his coffee mug first, listen to the song once again because it was as addicting as the dance that that spitfire of a dancer put together.

_“..got.. tation.. hy else?”_

And then his ears pricked up, eyes widening just a millimetre higher.

_“..ttending as a guest.. ign— Dance. Everything you do at a party, basically.”_

His head snapped towards the living room couch, just about yanking the buds off his ears.

_“Well, either way.. You’ll find out soon enough, Nijima.”_

He hadn’t heard that voice in so long.

The woman lifted her head to look at him then, something like shock swirling in her eyes— But when she did, he’d already gone back into his bedroom, mug left with steam rising on the kitchen counter.

Next week.

Next _fucking_ week.

His hand went to his chest, felt the rapid and uneven beating of his heart— skyrocketing, _pounding_. A war drum trapped in his ribcage. A jackhammer beating against his chest. He didn’t expect it to be so soon. It wasn’t supposed to be _this_ soon.

Shakily, there was a breath that left his lips. His eyes snapped towards the dark ensemble folded above his bed, its void-like colour almost swallowing the white, birdlike domino mask that sat above it— and with that, bright, red gloves, folded atop each other. They weren’t fingerless as how he’d once preferred them, but..

Well, a thief very well couldn’t leave any marks, could he?

 _Exactly_.

He fell onto his bed, legs hanging off the edge, phone in one hand and the other covering his eyes. Distantly, he heard an applause from the earbuds, and would only slide his palm off his face so he could look at the screen once again— right at the newly-posted video from Starlight Studio.

One that showed a familiar man with chestnut, brown hair.

One that showed how he rocked six-inch stiletto heels.

One that showcased especially, how striking and red the fire of his irises were.

Akira heaved another sigh from his lips, squeezed his eyes shut tighter than he’s ever had them.

Next week.

20th of November, Wednesday. 

_I’ll see him next week._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fingerguns  
> AYYEEEEE SUP IT'S YA BOY  
> BACK AT IT AGAIN  
> WITH THIS LMAO 
> 
> fr tho im wifiless again (just like last year when i began m&m,,,) so im like  
> dying lmao  
> i have like,, a hospital appointment to get to in like three hours but im JUST SO HECKIN GLAD I FINISHED THIS Y'ALL  
> Y ' A L L  
> THIS IS THE GOOD SHIT  
> 10K WORDS ?? THAT'S OUR NEW STANDARD FOR EACH CHAPTER. W H O O 
> 
> I HOPE Y'ALL ENJOYED THIS MONSTER. EXPECT M O R E LMAO 
> 
> listen list !!  
> sam tinnesz - play with fire  
> feng suave - honey, there's no time  
> x ambassadors - unsteady


	3. Track 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ear-splitting.

He’d almost forgotten about this part of Tokyo: How there seemed to be sirens of so many different kinds blaring throughout the night, how all the lights could illuminate the entire moon and more.. How every noise and bump in the night it made, made Tokyo just feel all the more alive.  
In a way, there was a part of him that missed it— the part that missed strolling these dangerous streets half past midnight. The part of him that loved watching the neons flash before his eyes. Running around Tokyo was bound to get him in _some_ sort of trouble, he knew that, but that was also the fun of it.

He once ran around the city _looking_ for trouble.

Watching it all, as he sat at a place _high_ above, he inhaled the cold November air and took in everything Tokyo had to offer.

He missed this.

“I figured you’d be up here.”

And of course, it had to be ruined _just_ when he was getting a feel for it.

“But Crows _do_ like high places, don’t they?”

“Fuck off, Nakura.”

That howl of laughter rang across the skylines, echoing far and being swallowed up by the rest of Tokyo’s noise. Without tearing his eyes away from the view, he knew the older man had crept up to his side and sat next to him, legs dangling off the edge of his penthouse’s rooftop. Even as annoying as Nakura insisted to be, he at least had the decency to place himself at a respectable distance between them.

“Oh, _come on_ , kid. You used to love it when I took you up here!”

“Yeah, _used to_ ,” Goro scoffed, fingers gripping the edges of the ledge he sat on tighter, “That was a long time ago.”

“No looking back, huh?”

“ _Only_ forwards. It’s one of the few good things you’ve said to me.”

Though that was true in and of itself, it wasn’t the only good thing Nakura had taught him. As a matter of fact, Goro would maybe even admit that he was only alive and where he was in his life now _because_ of Nakura, of the lessons that’d been drilled into his head from practically being raised by him. _Maybe_ he would admit it, if there was a gun to his head.  
Goro had done many things for his former employer—things he wasn’t proud of, things that he would never utter a word of to _anybody_ —but years would not erase the last task he’d given Goro before he left and made a new life for himself. Time would never stop the ceaseless nightmares. He was a stubborn little shit, he knew that, but it was _one_ lesson he didn’t dare put into practise.

He was past the life of being his runner, his little _apprentice_. He would (and already did) torture souls for hours on end, burn down homes and buildings, present a choice between loved ones and one’s self— But where he drew the line was cold-blooded, merciless murder.

He was Nakura’s Crow, and yet he would never find himself in a murder if it meant he would pull the trigger himself.

“So tomorrow’s the big night, hm?”

Goro didn’t need to be reminded. He’d been coming up to the rooftop of Nakura’s penthouse these past few days for the sole reason of getting away from thinking about it. As the 20th of November crept closer and closer, even dancing has had his thoughts leading back to what would become of his life after the party and the announcement— he’d dance to his steps, and his mind would reshape the lyrics of the songs he listened to back to what big speech he would have to make; He’d look at Ann, and he’d remember how much she gushed over the grand party, unknowing of the reveal yet. Even his usual safe haven (known as _Leblanc_ ) didn’t keep him from thinking about it, because he’d stare down at his coffee and be reminded of dark curls and even darker eyes, what purpose his disappearance served, _whom_ it was exactly that issued his arrest.

So, there he’d been, straight after classes: High above Tokyo, looking down upon the pretty mess of a city he used to run around in. Nakura never really bothered to ask or steal back the apartment key he’d given Goro so long ago, and Goro never really cared enough to give it back. Sometimes, he wondered if Nakura knew he’d sneak back here on the rare occasion, before any of this clusterfuck happened.

Knowing him, the broker probably did.

“Calling you Little Prince might become literal now,” Nakura laughed, an easy chuckle bubbling from his throat, “You’re basically going to be crowned the Prince of Tokyo, after all. Daddy dearest isn’t going to give a whole damn about the Emperor pretty soon and you and I both know that.”

“Are you here just to rub it in my face and insult me?”

Goro’s voice carried less venom and more.. well, _exhaustion_. He was tired—and not just because of his full day of teaching dance—but of _everything_. He didn’t even have the energy to shrug off the hand that Nakura clapped onto his shoulder, rubbing it in a strange way that Goro would almost call comforting.

But Nakura wasn’t capable of anything even remotely close to sympathy, so that was crossed off the list in his mind.

“I’m just stating the facts, Little Prince.”

“Says the man who spews bullshit nine out of ten times.”

Goro didn’t really believe what he said. Nakura knew more than he would ever even come close to touching, more than he said or expanded on. That didn’t stop the broker from letting onto the fact that he probably saw the whole picture, though, and it always irritated Goro how the smug smile on his cheeks never wavered.

And even when he was trying to be serious, Goro could still hear the shit-eating grin in Nakura’s voice.

“If you believe that, then let this be the one time I tell you something true— Do you know why mother crows make the young leave their nest as soon as possible? Even if they can’t fly yet?”

“What, is this going to be another fucked-up lesson on why you called me Crow?”

“It’s _because_ —”

“I don’t wanna hear this.”

“Even _if_ they can’t fly—”

“Nakura, fuck off.”

“There’ll be predators at every single angle just _waiting_ for the baby crows to be left alone on one continuous spot before they go for the kill.”

Goro remained quiet as Nakura clapped at himself, no doubt for his _fun fact of the day_. The scowl on his lips had been more than enough at showing his disdain for having to spend another _second_ in the man’s presence, and even as Goro separated them by two more feet on the ledge, it didn’t stop Nakura from bursting out into that ear-grating laughter.

His eye twitched.

“And that’s why I named you Crow, Little Prince!”

“Yes, _fantastic_ , can you jump off the rooftop now?”

“ _Fun_ , but no. I have a task for you— that is, if the little _baby_ doesn’t have to go to bedtime first.” 

If he had the patience for it, Goro would’ve landed a punch on the other’s face right then and there. It was entirely too tempting to cause bodily and physical harm to Nakura at every waking moment Goro had to spend with him, but he was bound by the invisible contract keeping him there: Jobs for answers.

Just occasionally, he’d come here if there was a hole in the picture, something he couldn’t figure out if he didn’t have Nakura’s info. Of course, as fucked up as it was, there was no other way of going around it—Goro knew other information brokers in the city, but there was no telling if they were as complete or accurate as Nakura’s—so he stopped being a little bitch about it all and did whatever _tasks_ the man had in store for him, just on his own bounds.

Or at least, on the bounds Goro could afford crossing.

 _Goddammit_.

Goro got to his feet, standing at the edge of the ledge as he fished the black facemask out of his hoodie pocket. As the wind blew his hair back, Goro rocked back and forth by the balls and heels of his feet, tying the long locks back into a ponytail before he brought the mask to cover his face, the hoodie covering his head afterwards.

“Name. Location. This better be something good this time.”

* * *

Tokyo’s noise rang into his ears, muffled by the looming high pitch in the back of his head and the thick windows that separated him and the streets. They’d been driving from the hotel he stayed at the night before for what should’ve been hours now— and yet, as he watched the lights and the buildings and the people pass by them, it all felt like an eternity and a split-second all in one breath.

That morning (all up to the late hours of the afternoon) there were a flurry of professionals coming in and out of his hotel room, a high-end place right in the heart of Shibuya: There were hairstylists that curled and sprayed and braided his brunette locks into perfection, makeup artists that brushed this and that across his features, people that fixed the tailor-made suit onto his frame, pulling here and there until the fabric hugged him just right, accentuated the lines of his torso and shoulders, made him look as princely as was possible. When Goro was finally left alone to look at himself in the mirror, what stared back at him was a far cry of who he usually saw.  
Instead of baggy sweatpants that hung off his hips or shirts that showed off his muscle, he saw the reds and whites and golds draped across him: white dress slacks and a nice-fitting suit jacket, that which was buttoned over a gold-trimmed and gold-buttoned red vest. From his neck, the white cravat was pinned by a ruby that shined within its golden casing, and on his shoulders, golden tassels and braided cords that hung around his arms, just above his biceps. Instead of a dancer ready to take on the world, there was a prince ready for a grand ball looking back at him; And instead of a man who looked alive and kicking, there was a pretty and made-up doll, with makeup that defined the sharp lines of his jaw and an outfit that shone with wealth and high class, yet with eyes that could never look more _dead_ and _lifeless_.

No longer was he going to be Goro Akechi, one of the stars shining in Tokyo’s world of dance— that night would never let him hold onto his title anymore, because when the cameras rolled and the stage was set, he’d become someone Tokyo would hunger for in all the wrong ways.

He wasn’t really sure what he felt as he sat in the limousine, being driven by one of his father’s chauffeurs closer and closer to his _death_. Was it dread, perhaps? That thing that festered within his chest and made his stomach churn? Was it fear? Anxiety? Pain? He felt too numb for it to be pain. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he felt anything at all since he walked away from another night of shrieking just a few hours previous.

Goro had turned the water of his bath as hot as he could handle it, and yet he still felt the blood splattered onto his hands, the weight of the pliers he used to pluck out each and every single nail on the target’s body. Even as he submerged himself under the water, the neverending, ear-splitting screeches still rang clear in his head, surrounding him, playing on a loop throughout the entire night and plaguing his nightmares.  
Whatever it was, he’d been trying to mull over it as a way to distract himself from what was to come, and even as he saw the colours of the sunset bleeding onto the sea out in the horizon, he never inched any closer to figuring out what it was exactly that he felt.

Maybe that was for the best, he thought, because it’d be easier to fake it through a night that was bound to be filled with fake smiles and laughter, masks that he’d have to shove onto his face.

Under all the layers of his suit, Goro brushed his thumb over the two pendants hanging off his neck, their outlines just barely felt over the princely white gloves on his hands. In a way, the simple act of keeping them close to his heart acted as a sort of healing balm over the wounds scratched over it, though it was for a reason most unbeknownst to Goro.

It was calming, that was all he really knew. He made a point never to take it off if it was possible.

They pulled up to the docks soon, and before the chauffeur could open the door for him, Goro tied the mask sitting next to him over his face— shaped like the wings of a crow spread out, with tips of gold feathering out and ties a colour that perfectly matched and blended into his hair.

“We’ve arrived, sir. Enjoy the party.”

Goro only nodded in silent thanks after he stepped out, his pristine, white dress shoes clicking against the asphalt as he strolled closer and closer to the piers, just briefly glancing at Tokyo’s Rainbow Bridge out in the distance.

Already, there was a mass of people gathered around the docks (press, paparazzi, the actual guests themselves,) with a few onlookers loitering about and watching the spectacle before them from a safe enough distance. Goro wouldn’t exactly fault them for being so enamoured with it all, because the bright lights and the red carpet could be seen from a mile away, the glitz and glamour and glitter shining so much that it made Goro’s eyes hurt. He suppressed the groans already ready on his tongue as he stepped through the red velvet divider one of the many, burly guards had opened upon seeing his glossy invitation, and even if there were press already on the sides of the carpet flashing their cameras at him (hungering to know just _who_ these guests of honour were) Goro chose to stride across and board the cruise ship with haste and.. truth be told, _impatience_.

He just wanted this night to be over with. All he wanted was to lay in his bed and shut the world out for the next decade.

Once boarding the ship, he’d find that the lobby was already filled with people: most in groups, mingling amongst themselves, with a few of the staff and guards in uniform standing around here and there. If he wasn’t in such a sour mood, maybe he would’ve even chuckled under his breath about how they, too, were roped into wearing masks, even if they were all identical.  
But ah, the subtle frown never left his lips as Goro made his way to the large, golden double doors leading to the hall. On his way, he watched as some individuals wearing the same black suits (a uniform, most likely) carried instruments into a side door, off a ways away and tucked into the corner.

Even the musicians wore masks. Really, how far did Shido take Goro’s masquerade theme?

He didn’t waste much time stepping into the hall, and at the sight of it all—all the gaudiness and the gold—he almost found himself gagging.  
The ceilings were impossibly-high above them, white marble mixed with golden pillars (one long, red cloth hanging off of each on either side of the room) lining the sides. Even the large windows in between each pillar looked as if they reached the ceilings, the intricately-carved swirls and lines spanning the tall columns impeccably identical to each other. Close to three of the four corners, circular tables were spaced out from one another, each one draped with white tablecloth that had what looked to be red rose petals smattered onto its edges. To match, each table had a bouquet of roses sitting within clear vases, the shape of so curved and with its rim flourishing out to resemble flower petals.  
Near the large stage opposite where the entrance was (that which mostly consisted of steps that led up to a wide space around a podium), a table stretched half the wall, filled only with what looked to be appetisers and finger foods and—most importantly to Goro, in that moment—champaign flutes and a variety of light alcohols. He plucked a flute off as he passed by it, circling the floor almost mindlessly.

Finally, he looked up, the piece de resistance: a gigantic, crystal chandelier lit up the entire room, hanging high above them from the middle of the ceiling. The more he ran his eyes over the upper level of the hall, the more confetti blasters he saw stuck to the corners— no doubt for later, when the big announcement was made.

As Goro made his way further into the wide, open space in the middle (in which, guests had already danced and grouped into each other) he saw what looked to be a stage built high into the left wall of the room next to the main stage—resembling a wide balcony more than anything—where musicians’ seats were lined on the left and a grand piano spanned the right side of, a microphone stand in front of the door that led into the balcony-stage placed in the middle.  
There was already a lively piece singing into the air, bouncing off the walls and making the guests dance. Though the party hadn’t _really_ began while they were still docked on shore, the musicians themselves seemed to already be in full swing. The song they played was led by the piano, and for a bit, Goro stood by the side-lines to watch them play, champaign flute in hand, mask over his eyes, and (though he’d tried to deny it) a minuscule smile pulling up his lips.

He had to admit, that pianist was good, and even despite the distance, Goro saw a wide grin pulling up the musician’s cheeks, gelled-over hair never coming undone even as his deft fingers glided across the keys.

He did look awfully familiar, though— or rather, the way he played piano was. It drew some memories from within Goro the more he watched the pianist sway with the music, fantastical and showman-like with a debonair charm just _oozing_ off of him. Even the grin splitting across his features looked familiar, and the black curls just added to it and—

 _Wait_.

Goro took a step (make that _a few steps_ ) closer, his eyes trying to squint in focus.

_It couldn’t be.._

He’d stopped in front of the stage, right under the podium, as his head craned to look up at _that pianist_.

_There’s no way.._

He had a mask over his face. Hell, _everyone_ had a mask over their face! That curly hair just looked..

_There’s no **fucking** way. _

Goro made an attempt to turn on his heel and bust ass towards the door he’d seen earlier, something urgent dragging at his feet and screeching at his every fibre to just _go check_ — only until a set of arms sliding over his shoulders made him almost drop the glass in his hand, nearly tripping in the process.

“ _GORO_!”

“A.. _Ann_?!”

Goro made quick work to look over his shoulder, could only stand and stare in awe at the appearance of the bouncy, cheerful woman that held a wide grin on her cheeks for him. 

She was (as Ann always was) _beautiful_.  
Before him, Ann had worn a knee-length dress, deep wine red with black lace decorating her waist and the edges of her skirt. Where the fabric dipped beneath her bared shoulders and collarbones, too, were lined with that intricate lace, and when Goro took a closer look, he saw the little, fuchsia rhinestones littering the underside of her bust and the off-shoulder straps. He’d come to realise that the stones formed a heart over the fabric where they didn’t cover over her chest, and to top it off, Ann had wrapped a black, velvet choker around her neck, a pinkish-red gem shining at the front of it.  
Tonight, she’d even let her hair down, the long, voluminous, ever-model-ready blonde locks gradually swirling into Spanish-esque ringlets by her waist. Her mask matched her dress, lace over the Bordeaux and tied with silky, black ribbons— for a second, Goro thought that it’d looked familiar, the mask shaping into her features with small cat ears poking up at the top, what looked to be a cat’s nose sitting above hers, and the catlike slants that made the eyeholes.

Though he’d lingered on her mask for far longer than he’d like to admit, the thing that shined from her most of all—what caught Goro’s eyes immediately after—was the bright red lipstick around her smile.

The “ _wow_ ” from his lips came in a breathless whisper.

“You look amazing!” he followed up, eyes widening beneath his mask and a grin forming on his cheeks.

Ann winked at him as she made a single twirl with her stilettos, showing off how her skirt rode up just a bit before she struck a pose at him.

“Speak for yourself! I wasn’t even sure if it was _you_!” she laughed, her hands already gliding over the little tassels on his shoulders, “What’s this, _hm_ , detective prince? Are you finally becoming a prince tonight?”

Oh, she didn’t know how right she was.

That soured him, but just a bit.

Still, Goro managed a chuckle all the same, the smile on his cheeks now feeling a little more forced than he would’ve liked.

“ _Maybe_ I am, _maybe_ I just wanted to splurge a little and dress up nice. Who knows?”

“Treat yourself..” she hummed, thoughtful, before those bright eyes snapped open and she grabbed his free hand, “Oh, we saved you a seat, by the way! Come on!”

Needless to say, there wasn’t really any objecting involved when Ann dragged him to a table in one of the corners of the hall. There was a thought in the back of his head that less than half-heartedly protested knowing he had a specific table he was _supposed_ to be at (as well as a pianist he wanted to know the identity of,) but really, Goro couldn’t care less about the former. He had a glass of champaign in his hand and his friends to unknowingly comfort him throughout this night— that was much better than having to brush elbows with politicians at his supposed-to-be table and endure the endlessly-long stream of praises at Shido, along with questions about who he was and why he was sitting around the most powerful people in the country.

Seeing the group all together, Goro concluded that it was _definitely_ miles better than what the prime minister had planned for him.

Goro almost didn’t recognise Ryuji, with the man donning a pristine, white dress shirt that showed off his built frame, black dress pants hugging around his thighs and an electric-blue tie around his neck. His hair was combed immaculately and sprayed with a part on the side, making him look less _rugged_ and more _neat_. If he peered closer, he’d see the way the sleeves hugged the muscles in Ryuji’s arms, bulky and strong and showing off how hard he worked out. Almost as if in contrast to the blonde’s almost over-the-top masculinity, Yusuke was dressed in a sleek, dark blue suit, a deep purple tie to match. Though he usually looked lanky, the articles hanging off his silhouette made him look more graceful than he already _was,_ and even if the artist already held an aesthetic that would’ve been easy to name as _high-class_ , the way the light bounced off his hair and made his lightly-touched-up face glow up made him look almost _ethereal_ amongst all the golds and reds of the hall. Finally, Shiho’s hair had been wrapped into a bun in the back of her head, dressed in a light mint gown with the skirt reaching the floor and a nice slit over her left thigh. It hugged her curves, and with the slightest shifts, made the silken skirt flow with her movement. She seemed to match with Ann, with white lace decorating the off-shoulder straps and coming around her waist, as well.

Ann had done an astounding job dressing them all up for the party, and Goro knew it was in no small thanks to her parents’ modelling agency— either lending them the clothes or just plain giving it to Ann. While he marvelled at their looks for the night, though, there was something that stirred bother in his stomach, what made him almost stop before he was crowded into a free seat next to Ann.

Their masks.

Looking at the eyewear covering their faces made a pang of déjà vu slap Goro across the cheeks.

Ryuji had a skull over his eyes. It seemed to shimmer in an almost-metallic finish, with little nuts and bolts over his temples and a front row of teeth (with two, sizeable fangs) hanging just above his lips. Yusuke wore a bright kitsune mask, white and with red accents slanting across his eyes, three lines going down from his forehead and forming whiskers on either cheek, yet sans the ears Goro usually saw in festivals. Perhaps Shiho’s was the only mask that didn’t make something stir within Goro, for it was the same as Ann’s mask but white and teal— that just didn’t stop his gaze from wandering over to Ann’s though, with that catlike shape and fierce air around it.

He took a swig of his champaign, sitting amongst them. In that moment, the feeling of the two charms hanging side-by-side off his neck made their presence even _more_ pronounced.

“I have to say, Goro— You _do_ rather resemble a prince tonight,” Yusuke had commented, his eyes picking apart the little details on Goro’s suit— from the tassels on his shoulders to the ruby on his neck, “Ann is right.”

“Yeah, dude! Y’look _good_!”

Goro tried to return the megawatt smile that Ryuji beamed at him, only coming short with a little nod of his head and a grin that he hoped erred more on the side of _sheepish_ than _exhausted_.

“You guys look great, too! And like I said, _always_ trust Ann to dress you up.”

To that, the aforementioned girl hummed a satisfied note, raising her flute for a second.

“Now, now, boys. I know I have my talents. Thanks for getting us in here anyway, gummy!”

“How’d ya even get invitations to a joint like this anywho?”

 _How_.

How, indeed?

He hadn’t thought of a good enough lie for that yet.

Goro didn’t even make an attempt at avoiding their eyes—rather, he’d closed his own altogether as if acting coy—as he hummed in faux-thought. With gloved hands joined and his flute abandoned onto the table before him, the brunette would only quirk one corner of his lip up as he gestured (vaguely) towards the masses that danced in the middle of the hall.

“A friend got invited, and she reached out to me with her extra invitations. It was unfortunate that some of her colleagues couldn’t make it, really.”

Goddammit, why was it hard to lie to his friends?

“ _That’s_ cool!” Shiho had beamed, leaning forwards on the table to look at him, “If you ever see her tonight, be sure to thank her for us, okay!”

“Will do.”

Settling back into his seat, Goro took a lighter sip of his champaign, eyes only lingering on the translucent, yellow drink.

_Got through **that** hurdle, at least.. _

Though he _did_ miss Sae, there was still an inkling of hope in his heart that he didn’t actually run into her throughout the rest of the party— even if she _would_ be seeing him eventually, just not in the way he hoped she would.  
See, Goro had worked with her at the same time he was under Nakura’s employment, had been a sort of double-agent in-between it all when he was sixteen to the ripe age of eighteen. As Nakura sent him out on the nights to collect information for him, the stir that Goro ( _Crow,_ at the time) usually found himself in during these missions would make its way to the police— then to Sae, who in turn collaborated with Goro as Tokyo’s famed _ace high school detective prince_ to solve these cases. While some of the cases they’d solved together were indeed on Goro’s own wit and merit, most of them..

Well, Goro would always excuse it to Sae as him having a keen and observant eye, a penchant for finding clues and figuring them out— When he was at the scene of the crime just the past few nights before.

Though there would always be a thought stuck in the back of his head about if she knew he perpetrated some of the crimes they’d solve, he always appreciated how she seemed to worry for him, as _more_ than just her little helper.. But then that only made the small bud of guilt in his stomach worsen, due to how he’d lied and sort of _maybe_ made her already-torturous job a little harder than it needed to be for his own fame.

_“Good evening everyone!”_

The lot of them turned to look at the stage, distracting Goro from delving back into his own head just as a booming voice rang from the loudspeakers that hung off some of the walls. Next to the podium stood a (masked) man holding a mic, bright smile lighting up face that reminded Goro of the way _he_ used to smile during interviews. For the moment, the musicians Goro had eyed earlier paused their playing, and chancing a quick glance at them then, he could faintly make out how they’d turned their head to look and watch, too.

Well, it wasn’t exactly that easy of a task as it seemed because of how big the hall was.

 _“Firstly, thank you all for attending tonight’s gala— **Welcome**! As we speak, the cruise has begun and we are currently off 50 feet from the Tokyo Cruise Port! Now, while we won’t be travelling the world.. **yet** ”_—a brief chuckle from the crowd sounded into the air— _“We’ll have plenty of time to celebrate! Later tonight, Prime Minister Masayoshi Shido is going to make a special announcement, and I don’t know about you, ladies and gentlemen, but I’m already curious! Until then, please enjoy the food, the mystery, the dancing— and of course, the music.”_

The MC gestured towards the musicians then, doing a quick bow at the front before a tune (lively and upbeat) sang into the air. Even as the man had gotten off the stage and the music began, Goro still couldn’t shake the bitterness that pulled at his gut when his _father’s_ announcement reared its ugly head again— which Ann seemed to take notice of as he downed the rest of his drink, eyes stubbornly sticking to the floor. After Goro set the glass back down, she began pulling at his and Shiho’s arms as she got up to her feet.

“Come on! Let’s dance!” her stare seemed pointed at _Goro_ , specifically, even as the smile pulled wider up her cheeks, “It’s a waste of a good song and we’re here to have a good time!”

No, no, no, no. That was _not_ happening.  
Goro was about to protest. He _really_ did not feel like dancing—even as outrageous as that would’ve sounded in and of itself with his reputation—but when he felt large hands on his shoulders and Ryuji’s ridiculously-strong push on his back, he was up off his seat with their two other men crowding him closer and closer to the centre of the dance floor, Ann and Shiho dragging both his hands forward.

He was shaking his head, little _“hey’s_ ” and _“stop it’s_ ” leaving his lips. They were stumbling and tripping over each other in their haste. Somehow, the four had made it work enough so that they were standing relatively in the middle of it all.  
If he wasn’t internally groaning like a moody teenager, _maybe_ he would’ve come to realise that this was Ryuji’s way of getting payback for what happened at their group dinner—maybe even their group choosing _him_ to be the victim of their shenanigans this time—and _maybe_ he would’ve found it funny. Maybe.

But he was not in the mood. He was _really_ not up to dance or have fun. All Goro wanted to do was hide in the corner and wallow in his own misery until he had to get on that stage and fake his best smile and fucking _praise_ Masayoshi Shido through the fine prints of his speech. Ann’s infectious laughter would _not_ pass to him. Yusuke trying to lift Shiho in a spin would _not_ tickle him, not in the _slightest_. Ryuji dancing like an angry chicken right in front of him _would not_ and _never will_ make him laugh.

_Don’t do it. Goro, I swear to God, if you laugh, I will actually punch you. **Don’t laugh.**_

He wasn’t going to laugh. _Goddammit_ , he was _not_ going to laugh.

Okay, fuck that, this was _hilarious_ — Goro couldn’t hold it in any longer as he watched Ryuji thrash around like the angriest chicken in the world, his arms punching up in the air with no rhyme nor rhythm and it was.. _glorious_ , in a word. Goro burst out laughing in the middle of the floor with an arm around his stomach and a hand trying (and horribly failing) to muffle his laughs.

They might’ve looked just _slightly_ out of place with their rowdiness and the only barely-hidden, beneath-the-surface sensuality in their steps, but the more Ann teased him about being afraid to show off and the more Shiho moved her arms as she held Goro’s wrists, just slowly and bit by bit loosened the muscles under all the articles of Goro’s clothes. They made him start to dance to the beat on his own, slowly coaxing him out of the next depressive shell he wanted to crawl into— and though he found himself a pouty little bitch about it at first, Goro Akechi started having actual _fun_ for once.  
Soon, he found himself moving to the music of his own accord (no hands held nor training wheels this time around) as the tamer steps of jazz and jazz funk flowed through his body easily. His head had gone empty as he let the notes and the melodies wash over those thoughts that’d been plaguing his mind for the majority of his day, and as he spun Ann, or locked arms with Ryuji, or even allowed Yusuke to spin _him_ , Goro didn’t stop the laughter from spilling off his lips, more and more as the song continued on.

It didn’t matter that his suit restricted some of his movement. It didn’t matter when he’d bumped into some of the other guests. _Hell_ , it didn’t even matter when he felt more than a few pairs of eyes lock onto his body. He looked fucking _good_ and he knew it. Dancing made him feel free, let him stretch his wings out, and though there was still a looming anxiety festering within his gut about this entire thing (just _being_ on that ship made Goro anxious to Hell and back) he let himself have at least _this_ moment.

As it turned out, that moment was just what he needed.

By the time the song had come to an end, Goro had one arm around his stomach as he half-doubled into himself, his laughter mixing with the rest of his friends’ as they veered off to the side together.

“ _Damn_ was that good!” Ryuji blurted, and Goro didn’t even have the heart to shush him as a few onlookers whipped their head to stare at their blonde friend. He could only nod along, grin wide across his cheeks— even if he declined when they offered to get him another champaign from the buffet table before they went ahead.  
Though it left him to stare amongst the sea of people that continued to dance and group themselves in the middle of the floor, he chuckled to himself all the same, shaking his head and re-adjusting his suit back into place.

He’d survive the night if they were there with him. Goro (for the strangest of reasons) knew that being the Prime Minister’s son wouldn’t change how they viewed him or interacted with him in the slightest, and it was a comforting thought that, at least momentarily, calmed the storm within his core. He’d still have his friends. That was.. strangely enough.

Goro would say that he was prepared for every situation that this night could entail. He was absolutely ready for anything, had thought everything through down to the very last detail.  
That proved to be a complete lie when his soul almost jumped out of his body at the sudden hand on his cravat, a finger hooked onto the silver chain that’d flown out of his suit from all the dancing they did.

“You should be careful, Akechi,” she said, and even though the shiny latex of her glove retreated, his eyes shot up to the deep, crimson irises hidden behind a black mask, bright yellow roses decorating the upper right corner of so, “You could lose this.”

Instead of a surprised gasp, though, Goro found himself chuckling, lips breaking out into an even wider grin— one that she returned in earnest, the black lipstick swiped over her lips making her teeth pop white. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Sae.”

“You, too. I see you’re still dancing.”

“ _Ha_.” It was more of a weak laugh than anything, his shoulders coming up to a quick shrug. “I guess you could say that. How’ve you been?”

Goro hadn’t seen her in years—not in person, at least—so he wanted to at least be polite, even if his earlier guilt made itself known again in the back of his head. Though Gods only knew how she managed to recognise him even after he’d finished with puberty and was dressed past the nines, he only chalked it up to Sae Nijima’s impeccably-keen eye— the only one that really saw through him.

Sae herself didn’t seem to change much, though. From what he could see of her (through all the makeup and fancy, mesh and silk black gown) she hadn’t aged a day from the last time he’d caught sight of the woman. Perhaps what was new to him this time was how she held a half-empty flute of champaign in her free hand (“ _not to be a bad influence_ ,” she said to him when he’d asked, all that time ago) but aside from that, she was still the ( _very_ ) tall, strong Sae Nijima that saw over him for three years of his life.

Even the smile she gave him—knowing and _wise_ —wasn’t any different.

“I’ve ranked higher in the Special Investigations Unit since you left. I’m the assistant unit commander now.”

Suffice to say, the surprised widen of his eyes spoke enough for themselves. The genuine pride was clear as day on his features.

“In _six years_!” And _that_ was less of a question, more of a statement. “Impressive!”

Should he really have expected anything else?

Impressive as it was, he guessed he shouldn’t have been all that surprised in the end. Sae was the most hardworking person he’s met to date and had the honour of working alongside with. With her headstrong personality and iron will, there was really no other way she would’ve ended up at.

The woman only laughed as she nodded, waving her hand as if to shoo away the compliment— but not really, since he knew that she secretly liked (read: _loved_ ) being praised for all the hard work she’s given to her job, all the dedication and hours she’s poured blood, sweat, and tears into. Goro would say that she deserved more praise than she got, if you asked him. 

“And what about _you_? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were head choreographer of your studio already.”

Her eyes softened, smile turning tender as she added, “You were always talented.”

To that, though, he could only manage a brief laugh as he shook his head.

“ _No_ , no. I’m just one of the regular choreographers. Besides, there isn’t really a ranking system in place— and I stopped dancing competitively a few years ago.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Sae hummed, lips dropping just ever so briefly before that smile once more settled back into her cheeks, “I always wanted to watch you compete.”

What was it, that strange feeling that settled into his chest once he heard her words?

“Maybe I’ll still be able to watch you dance _live_ one day. It’s been good catching up with you, Akechi.”

Maybe she caught the disappointment in his eyes. The conversation was done so soon? But they just started talking again! Goro had missed her (more than he would ever admit) though their relationship had been mostly professional with just a tinge of _possibly_ maternal care here and there, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t catch up more!

Nodding over his shoulder, Goro would only turn to look once he heard the voices of his group nearing once again— only _then_ coming to understand why their talk had to end so quickly.

That didn’t stop the disappointment budding in his chest, though.

“I’ll see you around, okay? Have fun tonight.”

“You as well, Sae.”

He bowed to her as she left (a deep hang of his head, in thanks to her for.. _everything_ ) which she returned with a single nod, pride seeping into her smile. As he felt Ann’s hand clap onto his shoulder, Goro had only watched Sae’s retreating figure, disappearing behind the crowds and groups that’d formed across the hall. It was only Ryuji’s low whistle that brought him back to them, an incredulous smile over his lips.

“ _Don’t_ even think about it,” he began, words holding a finality to them already, “She was my superior at detective work. She’s already married to her job and I don’t think she’s planning a divorce any time soon.”

“Still, though! _Damn_!”

“Ryuji, if you even _try_ , she can hold you down with both hands tied behind her back, I’m not joking.”

“So Ryuji likes older women now, huh?” Shiho teased, finger already poking into the blonde’s cheek.

“Hey, I never said nothin’! Goro’s superior is cute n’ all but Ai’s great!”

“ _Ooooh_ , on a first-name basis already?”

Ryuji flushed. Even through the mask he wore, it was so very _obvious_ how his cheeks began tinting a deep shade of pink— if the stutter in his voice didn’t make it apparent enough already. Goro chuckled quietly under his breath the more Shiho began prodding and poking into the date Ryuji had gone on with the waitress from their dinner.

Even with the ambient background noise of Ryuji and Shiho play-fighting in the background, Goro had still heard the low mumble coming from Yusuke.

“She’s a strong woman..”

And he could only nod in agreement, though the thought seemed to be from and for Yusuke alone.

“She is. One of the strongest people I know.”

“Oh, hey— Your necklace is hanging out.”

His eyes snapped back down to his chest, Ann’s voice making him suddenly aware of his necklace again. It wasn’t until he hurriedly made to stuff them back under all the layers of his suit did he breathe a sigh of relief nod in thanks to her, hand still over the charms as he kept them close, kept them _safe_.

“Thanks,” he breathed, a sigh of relief following right after. Ann beamed at him in return, a little giggle bubbling from her.

“No biggie. I never noticed the other one, though. Is it new?”

“No, I’m just—” he let his hand fall back down to his side, a small smile (just barely tinged with a hint of melancholy) quirking up his lips. “I’m just holding onto it for someone.”

Caught up in their small talk, Shiho (somehow) burst through them, sliding into Ann’s side. Without having to look, Goro knew already that their fingers had intertwined, because these two were the type to _always_ have to have physical contact with each other, the nerds.

Still, even as bittersweetly as he remembered the memories, he understood them. Goro had only managed a small laugh as Shiho announced, very loudly,

“Slow dance!”

And even with that, he laughed more.

“Would you give me this dance, my lady?” she asked, and with a nod towards Goro (as if saying _“I’ll be taking your best friend away now”_ ) Shiho led Ann back out into the dance floor, leaving the three of them men standing there, by the side-lines.

Well, it was a bit awkward now. The music had already begun again and they were but partner-less and not really willing to dance a slow dance with each other, as much as they were _bros_. Goro was full homo and Ryuji was just about the straightest man he knew, and Yusuke..

He was more interested in sketching out the layout of the hall, predictably.

Yusuke soon invited them back to their table, Ryuji following quickly behind while Goro declined. Though the two made an honest attempt at convincing him to join them, Goro had only beamed them a smile and a shake of his head, wanting instead to find himself back at the buffet table and grab himself another drink this time. Maybe, if he had a partner to dance with, he would’ve led them to waltz with him— but Goro’s social batteries were depleting and he still had much of the night ahead of him, so he chose to try and recharge even if it was just a _little_ bit.

What was the best (legal) way to do that? Alcohol.

And so there he was, masked, not as down as he was before, but also socially-partially-drained and heading towards the buffet table with just a single goal in mind.

He found that his plan to be alone for a bit was foiled, though, by a clumsy hand nearly spilling a flute over her dress. Goro was quick to grab the glass’ neck himself before any substantial amount of champaign fell onto the rich, velvet purple of the lady’s skirt, something that ballooned out of the black, fitted silhouette hugging her torso.

“ _Careful_ ,” he warned, setting the flute back down onto the buffet table. Next to him, the small woman had bowed her head deeply in apology, long, auburn beach waves falling over her shoulders.

“Apologies.”

It was really no big deal to him, and he would’ve made that clear— but when she lifted her head, Goro almost took a step back at the look in her eyes. He recognised it immediately, because those little things were the same that sat within his own gaze. In a way, when Goro’d seen it, he felt a spark of sympathy for the lady, as well as the feeling of _solidarity._

Melancholic, _exhausted_ , yet putting up a veil for the sake of being polite and for appearances. Hell if _he_ didn’t relate to that.

Behind her pink and gold-trimmed mask, there was a bit of something else seeping into her stare, Goro catching just a glimpse of it for a split-second before it seemed to vanish completely. Though it was somewhat strange, people held all sorts of secrets— he just wasn’t sure yet if it was in his best interests to uncover everyone’s anymore.

If he looked into it, maybe he would’ve come to recognise it as _recognition_.

“Thank you for catching it. Slip of the hand, is all.”

The way she spoke was curt, succinct, and yet her voice was too sweet for Goro to brush it off as mere haughtiness. He didn’t recognise her as a celebrity of any sort, nor did she look old enough to be a politician— That placed his bet on either a politician’s daughter (a fate he would never condemn to even the worst of his enemies) or a high-ranking officer in a business venture.

Doing a quick curtsy with her skirt, she looked him straight in the eye as she spoke.

“My name is Haru Okumura. Please feel free to call me Haru, if you’re comfortable.”

He only felt it was natural to return the gesture with a bow of his own, formal yet just friendly enough.

“Goro Akechi. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Okumura.”

“No, no,” she shook her head, catching just a peek of her features as the mask she held by its attached stick stayed stationary in its place, “The honour is mine, Akechi.”

That was strange. Goro couldn’t exactly place it, but there was a weight in her words, an anchor that made what she said feel more than just a generic pleasantry. It was, mayhaps, how one greeted someone they’ve been wanting to meet for more than only a short amount of time— and it got him wondering.  
But then again, Goro thought most things were strange, so instead of dwelling on it, he instead chose to give her a sheepish smile, filing the thought away in the back of his head for later. Seemingly distracted, though, he saw the way Okumura glanced out into the crowd, eyes latching onto something— _someone_ , perhaps—before she looked back to him, a resolve in her stare.

Goro tried to search for whatever piqued her interest as he followed her line of sight, but by the time he set his eyes on the numerous couples littering the floor, she’d spoken up again.

“This may be strange for me to ask, Akechi, but would you care to give me a dance?” she asked, hand already elegantly outstretched in the space between them. “I would take utmost pleasure if you accompanied me.”

He very well couldn’t deny a lady, could he? Don’t be fooled, there was still the internal introvert in him groaning at the prospect of his _me time_ getting postponed, but there was just.. something in Okumura’s eyes as she looked to him, something that almost _pleaded_ he say yes. Couple that with the weight in her words of earlier, and he was a curious man with a desire to know more.

“Who am I to reject your offer?” he replied, gloved hand taking hers, a polite tug up his lips. Okumura rewarded him with a smile, her chin bobbing into a curt nod before she was led further away from the buffet table and closer to the edges of the line of dance circling the floor.

Contrary to what Shiho had yelled into their ears earlier, it was not, in fact, a slow dance— rather, it was a waltz, triple-time and almost customary to these kinds of events. With his free hand positioning itself to the woman’s waist, Okumura placed hers on his shoulder, and together, they followed the spin of the floor. The song itself was most likely past its peak already and was close to its end, and so Goro followed what little steps he knew in this genre and provided his lead for Okumura to follow, spun and stepped in time with the music as they, too, circled the hall.

She was a good dancer, he noticed that much. Her steps were light, _graceful_ , even if they looked to be so precise that he was certain waltz was drilled into her. Even still, she followed his lead easily, back straightening and poised as they danced— all until she leaned into his shoulder, lips close to his ear.

“I’ve heard much about you, Akechi.”

The sudden topic made Goro look less to where they were headed in the dance, and back to her eyes—unhidden by the mask trapped between his shoulder and her hand then—with a question in his gaze that prodded her to continue. Okumura seemed to have thought over her next words for a bit, because it was only until after a few seconds had come and passed did she speak up again.

“A dancer, though I suppose that’s obvious enough with your earlier display and now. You’re a sort of..” she trailed off, humming as she momentarily looked to the floor in thought, “A _fireball_ , perhaps. Uncontrollable and powerful.”

Her choice of words (even as odd as they were) made a little chuckle spill from Goro’s tongue nonetheless.

“I suppose I should be flattered, Okumura. I do wonder where you’ve heard these things about me, though.”

“From a colleague,” she replied, steadfast and ready. “A colleague of mine is rather fond of you.”

 _Him_ , not his work in dance? That sent him into suspicion, eyes squinting at her openly.

“Do you mean to tell me I have a stalker?”

“Oh, _Heaven’s_ no!” Profusely, she shook her head, as if to further emphasise the point. “He’s not a stalker, I assure you— He’s here tonight, actually.”

 _Right_ , a stalker on a boat with him, out in the sea. That was comforting, _absolutely_. Goro felt totally, a hundred percent safe and not at all like he’ll be roofied or assaulted later in the night— if he and his years of self-defence had anything to say about it, at least.

The waltz came to an end, and with it, Goro released Okumura and made to give her a polite bow.

“Well then, I’m still quite unsure about wanting to run into him or not.”

Okumura curtsied in kind, and as they both lifted their heads, he saw the way her stare seemed to look past him— specifically, over his shoulder.

When a smile graced her lips, he knew it was all over.

 **_Here_ ** _we go._

“Fortunately, your anxieties on my colleague cease _now_. Thank you for the dance, Akechi. I wish you a good evening.” Placing her mask once more back over her face, she nodded to behind him, and it was in that moment that Goro _finally_ caught whoever it was she’d been looking at this entire time, whoever this might-be stalker of his was. “And you as well, Joker.”

A guitar plucked off from the speakers, the notes of a piano coming soon after. As Okumura strolled away from them, and a voice sang into the air, Goro found himself unmoving.

_“C’est une chanson, qui nous ressemble,”_

Black and grey— they were the first things he saw. A grey vest that hugged his strong frame up to his neck, hidden beneath a black tailcoat that reached his ankles. It flared back even as he took step by slow step closer to Goro, who stood in the midst of the hall feeling like he was a statue than a man.

_“Toi tu m’aimais, moi je t’aimais,”_

His hair seemed familiar, usually unruly and wild curls seeming to have been combed into place and gelled back, only leaving a fringe to fall over his right eye. It framed his strong features, the sharp line of his jaw, the nervous smile curling up his lips that feigned _easy_. How could Goro not have seen it? He’d already memorised all the nuances of his smiles enough to tell that he was trying to hide the anxiety— something Goro himself was failing at.

_“Et nous vivions, les deux ensemble,”_

Beneath the mask, it didn’t seem like he was doing any better himself, though.  
Those dark eyes (darker than the blanket of the night, brighter than any obsidian gem in existence) looked to nothing and no one else but him, capturing Goro’s gaze in a way that nothing else could. Even if the whole of his features was obscured by the black and white domino mask—the exact same design of the one currently hanging close to Goro’s heart, under his suit—he couldn’t miss the way they’d softened, the way his face expressed both fear _and_ joy, admiration as if he were in a trance.

_“Toi qui m’aimait, moi qui t’aimais.”_

The song and the singer picked up the pace _just_ as Akira Kurusu had reached him, his head bowed and a hand (wrapped in a bright, crimson red glove) reaching out to Goro.

“Will you give me this dance?”

He couldn’t speak. Goro felt his tongue had been caught. His heart was racing _too_ quickly and the only thing that permeated how it pounded in Goro’s ears was that voice asking him for a dance. The only thing in his line of sight was not the other guests, nor the too-bright interior of the hall, nor even how his own gloved hand had already come to rest upon the other’s, even as it trembled at their touch— instead, it was trained in how the spark of joy in those eyes burst into a ball of fire, how light replaced the majority of where his fear once settled in.

How Akira looked at Goro the way Goro was looking at Akira then: Filled with love, even if it’d been masked in mostly disbelief.

_“Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment, tout doucement sans faire de bruit,”_

Even through their gloves, Goro still felt the warmth of his hand— if not by how Akira’s grip tightened on his hold, then by how he pressed them together. Even the look in his eyes radiated the warmth that Goro had woken up without on so many mornings through all the time that’d passed, the warmth that he’d yearned for since that one, faithful August night.

_“Et la mer efface sur le sable, les pas des amants désunis.”_

He noticed that Akira was taller than him as they began moving, evident in how Goro had lifted his eyes to look up at the man. With his grip just _slightly_ tightening on the other (brought by a fear that this may have been another dream, or a man that just resembled Akira far too much, or his own brain fucking with his sense of reality) he mumbled just under his breath.

“I thought you said the person you like was taller than you.”

He was rewarded with naught but a laugh, so warm and encompassing in Goro’s ears that no one could convince him it wasn’t the most beautiful sound he’s heard all his life.

“I did, but I’m wearing heels.” Akira winked at him, a whimsy and almost _mischievous_ smile decorating his features. “Don’t tell him.”

And really, could Goro keep the small bubble of laughter from welling up inside him when Akira had said it like that? Like it was a conspiracy and a plead all in one?

No. The answer was _no_.

“I think he might already know, though. You just told him.”

“Then let’s keep that a secret between us, hm?”

Akira breathed a sigh as he leaned in just a bit more, barely pressing his forehead to Goro’s for _just_ a moment as they twisted and turned throughout the floor. Though the smile still remained on his lips, he’d find that it widened just a bit as Goro chuckled (the nervousness making it shaky) for what felt like no reason, until—

“You still dance clumsy.”

“I’m still practising!” he exclaimed, as loud as he could be when he was speaking in hushed whispers between them anyway. “Not everyone can be _incredibly_ hot while dancing without thinking about it, y’know.”

With his hand still holding onto Goro’s, Akira made to spin him as they continued to move. When the man had settled back against Akira, he would almost find himself laughing at the unimpressed look crossing his handsome features.

_Of course._

“Don’t think you’ll win me over with that.”

“It was worth a try.” He shrugged, still very much having that wide, Cheshire grin splitting across his face.

“You need to try _harder_ , then.”

To that, Akira hummed, close-lipped as they found their way closer to the centre of the floor.

“I’d love to show off, but I can’t let too many people notice us, can I? I want you all to myself.”

There was also the fact that his cover would be blown, but that could take the backseat while he was trying to live this moment. It was hard enough sneaking onto the ship as a backup pianist, and _maybe_ he wanted to spend as much time as he could with Goro— even if it meant seconds or minutes, or even for just one song.

“With _this_ getup? I think you’ve already failed.”

Though there was a laugh that left him at the other’s quip, when a forlorn, melancholic look cast over Goro’s eyes, Akira found himself holding onto the other just a bit firmer than before, just a bit more _securely_ than before. 

_No, no, **please** smile again. _

“I missed you.”

“ _Hey_. I don’t want you to be sad.”

Again, pressed his forehead to the other’s, eyes closing as he let Goro take the lead.

“I don’t want us to be sad when we can have this, right here, right now.”

And as he pulled back, made to leave a chaste, fleeting kiss there.

“So give me a smile? I’ll give you the whole world in return.”

For a moment, Goro had looked to their feet as the song continued, a few seconds coming to pass before his eyes caught Akira’s once more. Though the small smile on the brunette’s lips had fallen, there was something in his eyes that made Akira almost stop dancing, made him almost stutter.

“I don’t need the whole world.”

If that didn’t make his breath catch in his throat, then the end of the song did.

Goro was first to pull away, right as an applause aimed at the musicians rang into the air around them. The farther he went, the more Akira’s heart began to race, the more the fear that’d been rooted into his chest resurfaced from whatever depths it hid within as they danced. Akira could only grip Goro’s hand tighter, the other slipping into his breast pocket.

As they bowed to each other, the only other thing Akira could do was to pass Goro the small note as discreetly as he could when he kissed the man’s knuckles, his eyes coming up to meet the fire in stunning, red irises with something akin to a _plead_ in his gaze when he let go. It confused Goro, for just a bit, as he felt the paper crumpling in his grasp and glanced down to it— but when he turned to take a fleeting look back at those red gloves, he’d find that the other was gone, and he stood amidst the middle of the floor with nothing but something welling up in his heart and a note in his hand.

_Meet me in the engine room. 15 minutes._

He’d been in the bathroom when he read the note, sitting on the lid of a toilet in the corner stall. Goro wasn’t dumb enough to reveal there’d been something passed to him in the middle of a ship with all of Shido’s guards and a multitude of witnesses surrounding him— so as soon as he gathered whatever wits he had left in him, he got himself a champaign, downed it in record time, and excused himself to the men’s room.

Five minutes must’ve passed since then. He very well couldn’t sit here for another ten or it’d start to look suspicious. Checking the time on his phone, it was already an hour before Shido made his grand entrance and the prelude to his debut, the start of pleasantries and everything. Goro had to be up on that stage.

As he sat there, he knew he was forced to make a choice. On one hand, he wasn’t going to throw away the progress he’s built all these months with getting closer to Shido, get inside information on what was going on with the pictures of his mother in the prime minister’s desk, what that button hidden under all of them were; On the other, he was presented with the choice to meet Akira again.

That was dangerous. That was making his tightrope far too thin to balance on anymore. Goro wouldn’t logically make the decision that would render all of his work null and void, but there was also his heart telling him to choose Akira and run away from all this. If Akira had managed to hide away for so long, what was to say that Goro couldn’t either? The voice in the back of his head egged him on to take the easy route, to go ahead and convince Akira to hide away with him, abandon whatever the fuck it was that brought the man here on this boat anyway.  
But that was also stupid. What would running away do? He’d be abandoning his friends, abandoning the rage within him that clawed at everything to find the truth. Never will he find the answers to his mother’s fate, what the holes in his childhood held, nor will he ever have the chance to confront Shido and put a bullet in his skull if it came down to it.

 _No_. No, Goro wasn’t going to stoop to that level on a hunch. He wasn’t going to end a life, that was his entire reason for leaving the person who provided him with the most stability an eighteen-year-old who never went to college could hope for. 

He vowed never to get his hands dirty, never to drown in a sea of blood. That wasn’t _him_ , that was _too much_.

With a shuddering breath escaping through his lips, Goro reached into his collar, hooking a finger around the chain on his neck and pulling it out. All he could do in that moment was to stare down at the red mask in his palm, his eyes sliding over to the domino mask blending into the colour of his gloves if not for the black accents stemming from the eyeholes. In his other hand, he held the note, read over the words again and again, committing each curve of the handwriting into memory.

All those years ago, if he’d never wandered into Yongen-Jaya, where would he be as of the current moment? A normal life, probably— not one haunted by the memories of his past, not one with the frustration of his missing childhood looming over his head; Instead, he’d still be dancing, a normal citizen in the grand scheme of Tokyo with secrets he’d take to the grave.

He wondered if that would’ve been easier than what he had on his plate now. He wondered if it would’ve been worth it had he the chance to rewind all these years back and go back to that one, fateful morning, when he took a different route on his morning cycle out of a mere _whim_.  
He could be content with having no one but Ann and Shiho as his closest friends, could’ve been satisfied with teaching dance all his life. He could have been okay with staring at Joker from a distance, longing and never touching, never getting close.. And yet, he knew from deep within him, that he _wouldn’t_.

Looking back, this was all Akira’s fault, wasn’t it? It meant that he had to take responsibility for it all, then.

For all the mystery, Akira will uncover the secrets.

For all the missed chances, Akira will open more doors.

And for all the heartbreak, Akira will love him tenfold in return.

But Goro wasn’t going to let him do it alone. He’ll stand by his side, no matter what he said about the dangers and risks, because _fuck_ if Goro wasn’t already neck-deep in danger as it was even _without_ Akira there, leaving his mark in Goro’s life.

He’s made his choice.

Slinking back to the entrance, he found his way to the engine room.

* * *

From down below, in a place that could be compared to Hell when you put it next to the grand, golden hall from up above, there was nothing but the _CLANG_ of the engines, the _CRASH_ of the waves outside, and the repeated tapping of his heel against the metal floor. Akira sat hunched over on a box within the shadows of the engine room, his fingers joined together, his leg bouncing without his control, and his eyes cast to the floor in equal parts fear and anxiety.  
It was almost funny, in a way. Here he was, about to make his grand debut out in public without all the aliases and masks (or at least, the masks that mattered in hiding his identity) and he was having something close to a breakdown over the love of his life finding someone new in the time he’s been gone— in the time that he’d basically _abandoned_ him.

He wouldn’t have been surprised, though. Fifteen months was enough to make anyone think that he was already dead, and he supposed that it was his fault for disappearing without a trace, no phone calls or signs that he was still.. _there_.

Throughout his life, Akira Kurusu has fucked up many, _many_ times before, but this one just about took the cake.  
Was it a mistake to ask Goro to meet him there? Was it a mistake for him to never have called? Never to have at least snuck into Goro’s apartment in the middle of the night just to show that he was still alive? Maybe it was. Maybe Goro would never come down here. _Maybe_ his mistake was getting wrapped up in all of this to begin with.

 _No_ , he shouldn’t be thinking that. All of it, everything that he did was to make things better. He’d began all of this to help Futaba, to find the truth— To bring justice where justice had been gone from, for too long of a time. There were sacrifices that he had to make, and he chose the greater good over his own desires. If it was what it took to make things right then he wouldn’t have done otherwise.

Why did he feel an inkling of regret squirm into his stomach, though?

Hiding his eyes behind his hands, Akira could only groan into all the noise that drowned out his voice.

 _Fuck_.

That was just about the most articulate way he could put it.

It was also the first thought that popped into his head at the echo of footfalls down the metal staircase, his head shooting up and his body almost instinctively blending into the darkness. While he scoured the engine room enough to know the general layout of it in case he needed to hide, he’d find himself relaxing back into place when he saw a white suit, the red mask whipping around here and there as if in search.

The more the figure descended, the more his thoughts washed away in the noise. The more he saw of the other, the more he became acutely aware of the panic spiking and falling in what felt like a second. As he stopped on one stair, Akira got a glimpse of all of him, radiant like the sun in his princely garb, illuminated only by the few, strong lightbulbs of the room.

There he was.

Akira only got to his feet when he’d beaten his heart into submission, willing the skyrocketing pace to calm down. The moment Goro saw him, though, it was rendered all for naught— because when Akira stepped into the dimmed light from the bulbs hanging overhead and only stopped in front of the stairs, looking at the shocked-still figure of the brunette sent his heart back into a frenzy.

There were a few seconds of silence between them, only the crashes and clangs filling what quiet was left. Akira couldn’t stop his pocketed hands from trembling, couldn’t find it in himself to take another step closer. If he did, he was sure he’d collapse into a pile of anxiety right then and there, the breaths fanning over his bottom lip shallow enough as they were as he stared back at Goro, at the unreadable expression contorting on his demeanour.  
Goro’s lips opened and closed, almost as if he were searching for words. The hand he’d slid along the railing gripped onto the metal, the other shooting up to grasp at something beneath his clothes. Those red eyes of his trained on nothing else but Akira, and under his gaze, every fibre of him screamed at Akira to _run_.

Truth was, he was afraid. He could be under fire again, could be running from the burning building of his home, could be cornered by every cop in the country that was out for the bounty on his head— but those were only crumbs in comparison to the absolute _fear_ he felt standing in front of the brunette. Goro Akechi was the one thing Akira was truly afraid of, and it was all because he alone had the power to make Akira do absolutely _anything_ he asked for.

That was scary enough in and of itself, and the moment Goro had taken step by slow step closer to Akira, Akira felt his heart pound harder, almost as if trying to beat out of his chest— and despite all the fear and anxiety and uncertainty bubbling under his skin, once the other had broken out into a run, Akira’s body moved on autopilot.

They couldn’t have gotten to each other fast enough. The moment they were at arm’s length from each other, Goro had pulled Akira into himself, an embrace so tight that Akira never wanted to let go. Akira’s arms shook as they wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and even as he hugged Goro with all the desperation and _need_ that he’d been trying to ignore all these long months, Goro still shook tenfold.

He ripped his mask off, the thing only clattering to the floor when Goro’s had, too, and looking at the man’s face again, after so _fucking_ long..

He’d missed the taste of his lips. He missed the warmth of his hands. Each passing day was never the same when he didn’t have his scent to wake up to, when he didn’t have Goro’s voice calling out to him, so sweetly, so _right_. Maybe, for the time, Akira had convinced himself that the phantom pain wrangling at his heart was due to being _shot_ , when he knew deep within himself that it was because he’d been ripped apart from the other half of his very soul.

To kiss Goro again, to feel his touch and have him close once more.. It was the catharsis he couldn’t even have hoped for so long ago.

Goro was the moment he’s been missing all his life. He realised it when, again, their lips slid over each other, desperation and _need_ bared out in the open.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he mumbled, in-between each peck to his lips, “I’m so sorry I took so long—"

“Just shut up and _kiss me_.” Goro shook his head, though it was more of a tremble than anything as his hands wrapped around the back of Akira’s head, pulling him back in so much deeper than before, “You’re such an _asshole_ —”

A kiss.

“A fucking _dick_ —”

And another.

“You’re such a fucking _fool_ and I love you so much—”

And one more, just as Akira had accepted yet another aggressive peck to his lips before Goro pulled him in close again, his head on Akira’s shoulder.

“I hate you, Akira Kurusu.”

Even if he’d began to tremble, Akira laughed all the same (a laughter that revealed only his relief and the edges of his crying) as his nose buried within the other’s hair, breathing in his scent, drinking in Goro’s very _presence_. _Fuck_ , he missed this. Akira didn’t realise how much he _needed_ this until he got it.

“I love you, too, Goro Akechi.”

Goro’s shoulders started to shake, hiccups and small sobs emanating from the man. As Akira began stroking his hair, he’d also guided Goro back to the box he was sitting on— And though it may have been an asshole thought to have, as small streaks of tears cascaded down the man’s cheeks, Akira still couldn’t stop himself from thinking that _holy shit_ , Goro Akechi was the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

From his breast pocket, Akira pulled out the handkerchief folded into a pocket square, handing it to the other as he settled on the spot beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, an arm secure around Goro, face buried within the locks of his hair, as Goro dabbed at his eyes, “I’m so sorry it took me so long.”

“You kept your promise. You’re _back_.” Another hiccup was muffled into the handkerchief, the other shaking his head. “I just hope you have a plan for telling me why you’re here _now_ , what the hell is even _going on_ anymore.”

“I’ll explain, just— Just let me have this right now, okay?”

Akira didn’t need to say any more. He knew Goro had needed it, too.

They sat like that, for maybe more than just a few minutes. As Goro collected his breathing and the sobs in his throat died down, all Akira had done was to remain quiet and stroke his hair, hold him close by his side. Moments would come and pass, and even then, they hadn’t moved away from one another, hadn’t done anything that would put them at a greater distance, hadn’t uttered a single word as all they did was breathe with each other, feel their touches, hear their heartbeats almost beating in-sync.

The world felt still. He could convince himself that as they held one another. It was only when Goro had returned his handkerchief to him did Akira dare try to break the silence.

“I was chased out of The Metaverse,” he began, only a single breath shuddered in through his mouth as he recounted that night, “The police raided my apartment, and I only managed to escape when I set the building on fire and ran to the alleys.”

“Yeah, there was.. There was a news report on you after it. They called you—”

“A terrorist. I know.” Akira couldn’t stop the sigh that escaped him. “I fucked up, got caught by our target. He knew I was onto him and he acted faster than we thought. I was only lucky he didn’t manage to find us in Nagano.”

Goro nodded silently, an encouragement for him to continue. Before he spoke up again, Akira placed a kiss on the crown of his head.

“I was shot.” Gingerly, he took one of Goro’s hands, placed it above his heart as a bitter memory came to his mind’s eye. “Right here. I had a bulletproof vest on, but the bullet managed to break through it. Y’know getting shot hurts like a bitch? It hurts even more when you’re almost going into cardiac arrest.”

Wrong move. Akira had tried to pass off his sad excuse of a joke with a laugh of his own, and yet it only made the look in Goro’s eyes darken to degrees he could admit he was surprised of, made him squirm just a bit uncomfortably.

It was just a _bit_ off, but Akira continued nonetheless.

“It’s why I couldn’t come back earlier than we planned. We were only supposed to be there for a few months, wait it out until our trail went cold and we could sneak back into Tokyo, but well..” He shrugged, tried to be casual. Keyword being _tried_. “It took a while before I could heal. When I _did_ , we went back to the building I was shot in.”

“You’re insane,” Goro scoffed, cutting him off though Akira still gave him an easy smile.

“I was _curious_. There was something there that I _needed_ to check out again, and.. I might’ve.. Maybe.. Sort of.. _left something_ there.”

Okay, Akira couldn’t help but laugh at the incredulous look crossing over Goro’s face, his brows knitted down and a deep frown pulling at his lips, the cherry on top being how _murderous_ Goro’s eyes became. Akira booped him on the nose for that.

“ _Relax_ , it was only my mask— and I didn’t leave it where anyone out to kill me could get it, it just sort of..”

He hummed. How could he say this without seeming like he’d already lost his mind?

“ _Fell_. Through a door.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

Akira winked at him, playful and mischievous as if they couldn’t be caught at any given moment.

“They _do_ call me Joker—”

“Be _serious_.”

“Okay, okay, _OW—_ ” Akira tried to retract as Goro pinched his cheek, tugging here and there and dragging Akira by the flesh of his face when he pulled, “ _Okay_! I’ll be serious!”

The only apology he got was a kiss to the reddening mark on his cheek. Akira accepted it wholeheartedly anyway, even as his features dimmed to a grim expression, his stare trained onto Goro’s.

“You’re not going to think I’m crazy if I tell you, though, right? _Tell me_ you’ll believe me.”

“I’ll always believe you. Hell, what I’m going to tell you later might be even _more_ unbelievable, so..”

Goro gestured with his hands, nodding.

“Tell me.”

“It was a portal.”

Bombshell dropped. He shifted in his seat as he watched Goro try to take it in, his eyes only spelling of confusion and disbelief as he stared back at Akira.

“.. Excuse me?”

“To another world.”

“I told you to _be serious—_ ”

“AND I _AM_!”

_Dial back— Tone it down a little, Akira._

He didn’t expect to yell like that, the echoes of his voice still ringing across the vastness of the engine room. Akira took a few seconds to breathe in and out as he gathered himself again, the outburst something that’d just.. _jumped out_ of him. When he felt Goro pressing into his side—in that way he always comforted Akira—he’d only smile apologetically (and gratefully) at Goro.

“I’m not.. I’m not crazy, okay? I know what I saw— and I think I have an idea of what it is.”

“Let’s say that was actually real. What is it?”

A beat, then two, of silence. He was unblinking as he uttered that one word, scribbled all around the empty space where the blacks and reds of that room once were.  
He couldn’t get the image of it out of his head, even if he _tried_. It was permanently tattooed into his mind’s eye, singed into his memories in a way much like trauma latched onto the brain.

“ _Persona_.”

There was a tug in his gut, a voice in the back of his head recalling what he’d seen in Aerial Pharmaceuticals. Before he spoke again, Akira made to take a few more deep breaths in.

“We went back to the building, but that portal thing was gone— even _then_ , we still looked around the office we found it in, just in case there still might’ve been _something_. There were books detailing these experiments that were based around _“the self.”_ Something about a shadow, then a persona, then _ego_. Jungian Psychology.

“We found papers on this.. this project, _Persona_. It was trying to research about what they called a _cognitive world_ , how it could be accessed.. How they could get the physical manifestation of a—”

_“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s finally time! It is my pleasure and honour to welcome to the stage the Prime Minister of Japan, Masayoshi Shido! A round of applause, please!”_

The announcement rang even to the engine room. The second the MC’s voice had reached his ears, Akira’s head shot up to the staircase, ready to flee even if it’d been from the speakers. It wasn’t too long after that he felt Goro jolt into a start beside him (the stiffness of his muscles felt even through the layers of their clothing) and, just as quickly, bolt upright to dart towards the mask he’d abandoned on the floor, beside Akira’s.

“I have to go,” he said, a rushed jumble of words that didn’t fully sink into Akira’s ears until Goro had slipped his mask back onto his face.

“Wait— Wait, _what_?!”

“They’ll find you if I don’t go right _now_ , just—”

Masayoshi Shido’s voice rang next, a grating sound even as he spoke smoothly.

_“Good evening, everyone. Thank you for attending this momentous occasion. In all my years serving as your prime minister..”_

Akira looked back up, then to Goro, right as he got onto his feet. Immediately, his hands had grabbed the brunette’s shoulders, forcing him to look at Akira and see the pure confusion written in his eyes, the mess of questions firing through his look. Goro avoided staring back at him entirely, his hand coming to under his shirt, pulling out the silver chain that looked so very familiar to Akira before his eyes caught on the pendants hanging off of them.

“I need to give this to you before I go. Take it, it’s yours—”

_“Though I am wholly at your service, I have also been awakened to the revelation that has changed my life for the better. I am committed to serving Japan, and it is my intention to see my promises through to the end, but..”_

“No.”

Akira gripped his shoulders tighter.

“Hold onto it for me. Promise me you’ll give it back when this is all over.”

Goro’s eyes could only dart back and forth towards the staircase and Akira— and at the panic in his gaze, Akira felt his heart wrench, the anxiety thick in the air around him.

“I need to go,” he said again, fixing himself up as Akira’s hands fell from his shoulders. What Akira didn’t expect was for Goro to grab onto the lapels of his tailcoat and pull him in, a deep, nervous kiss passed between them before he looked Akira in the eyes, _finally_.

“I promise I will, only if you promise me you’ll make it out alive. I love you.”

“Goro..”

He was already running towards the staircase, Akira only watching him as he stood there, stunned, with none but his mask in front of him. Seconds passed before Akira was snapped out of his state, the yelling from the voice in his earpiece finally breaking through to him.

_“Arsene, come on! Can you hear me? It’s already showtime, hurry up!”_

“Yeah, I—” He picked the birdlike, domino mask up from the floor, pressing it back to his face as the adhesives stuck to him like a second skin, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Deeply, in and out, he breathed to himself. He had to focus. He couldn’t let anything shake him.  
Though there was a feeling of uneasiness creeping in his gut from the sudden way Goro had to leave, he didn’t dwell over it, forced it to the back of his head as he grabbed his supplies off the corner of the engine room and grappled up to an air vent.

It was like second nature to rip mask to mask off and on his face. The shift from Akira to Joker to Arsene and whichever way was jarring, and yet somewhere along the lines, he’d grown numb to it. He’d switch as naturally as he breathed. The lines were blurred anyway, so what was the point in distinguishing them any longer?

There wasn’t.

Akira crawled through the vents easily, navigated only by Futaba’s voice in his ear whenever he made a turn. When she’d told him to get to the dead-end on his right, he already saw the golden pillars of the grand hall from the other side of the bars, positioned himself so he could push and kick his way through it easily.

As he did, he heard Masayoshi Shido’s voice clearer than ever.

_“Now it is my pleasure to introduce to all of you, my son.”_

He landed on his feet upon the balcony on which he played earlier, some of the musicians he’d played with jumped out of their seats, some shrieking in surprise, and some already scrambling out the door. Their noise hadn’t alerted the guests, for their attention was hooked solely by the figure in front of the stage’s podium. Futaba chimed into his ear.

_“Lights off, **now**!” _

He jumped up to the railing as the lights shut off, bathing the entire hall in darkness.

_“Got your mic connected to the speakers, Arsene.”_

Some screams and confused mumbling echoed through the vast room before they’d slowly flickered on again, at Futaba’s command.

_“It’s showtime. Show them what we’ve got.”_

Akira pulled the gun out from his holster, firing a fake shot into the ceiling.

_BANG_

As all eyes snapped to him, Akira would only look over the crowd.  
There were TV cameras set in front of the stage, pointed at him now. He steeled himself as he saw his group of friends, Ann holding Shiho as the woman cowered into her, Yusuke standing in still shock, Ryuji with his mouth agape in disbelief; He saw Haru, who’d watched him silently as she stood amongst her company, yet with eyes that shined and betrayed the surprised look etched onto her face; And then, Makoto Nijima running to the front entrance in her uniform, no doubt trying to get to him already.

Sliding his gaze over to the stage, he hissed to himself as he saw Shido, who glared back at him tenfold.

_I lived, bastard._

But Akira only faltered, by the _slightest_ bit, as he saw a face he’d never thought to see on that podium, stare widened and wild. He looked at Akira with the guilt _clear_ in the look in his eyes, his gloved hands grasping onto the podium lest he’d buckle under his own weight. The more he looked at him, the more the questions began fogging the forefront of his brain, that which’d already focused on thief mode than anything else.

It made his persona hiccup, produced just the tiniest crack in his mask.

Shido’s announcement rang back into his head.

_Now it is my pleasure to introduce to all of you, my son._

_My son._

**_Son_ ** _._

Goro Akechi was Masayoshi Shido’s son.

He’d been targeting Goro Akechi’s father this entire time.

Akira ripped his eyes away from them, closing them just ever so briefly to compose himself before he looked down upon the crowd. Mischief and _rebellion_ occupied his stare, his grin wide and saccharine.

If he looked at his reflection then, Akira wouldn’t have been surprised by who he saw.

“What a party, am I right?” he began, his voice echoing through the speakers as his hands raised, sweeping over the entirety of what he saw, “Nice music, fun dancing, and how can I forget the best part?”

He walked across the railing as he spoke, faux-tripping and nonchalant as he tucked his gun back into its holster. Akira only stopped as he reached the curve of the railing closest to the stage, all before he gestured towards Masayoshi Shido.

“The biggest joke there is! Give it up for Masayoshi Shido, everyone!”

The sarcasm dripped from each word he spoke, his voice loud amongst the silence of the hall. Already, though, he could see Shido gesture to his guards from the corner of his eye, and so Akira readied the grappling gun by his side.

_“Z’s already outside if you need to make your escape, Arsene.”_

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Akira put a hand to his head, shaking it as if he were careless. “You heard the punchline before the joke! Here, let me make it easy for you.”

He cleared his throat, grappling gun in his hand already. His voice had gone a tone deeper, catching on a hard edge that matched his glare as he looked straight at the prime minister.

“The crimes that Masayoshi Shido has committed will be revealed, each and every single vile strand in the web of his lies and corruption. Should he confess to his sins himself before then, retribution and atonement may still reach him. _Tonight_ , at the stroke of midnight, justice will come to the light.”

He feigned a smile once more, Cheshire-like and toothy, sharp as his eyes.

“I’d say this is a fine time to confess, isn’t it?”

The door behind him burst open, a gun clicking not too long after.

“ _FREEZE_!”

And he’d simply turn his head, coming to stare at Makoto Nijima.

“Come with me and I’ll get you somewhere safe,” she uttered, just under her breath. Still, she had the barrel of her gun trained at his head.

As if he’d fall for that.

“I’d like to believe that, but I’m no fool.”

He aimed the grappling gun at the chandelier, turned to face the crowd again.

“I’m only a Joker.”

Then shot, his body swinging down to below as soon as the claw wrapped around the chandelier. A split-second after he descended, he heard the _BANG_ of Nijima’s gun where he once was, and as he swept by the guests clearing a path for him, he only had but a glance of his friends, watching him, wide-eyed, disbelieving yet with just the slightest sliver of support and joy on their faces. A moment before he reached the windows, the flurry of red and black cards rained down around them, his earlier rigging of the confetti blasters controlled by Futaba.

He kicked through a window once he pressed the release button on his grappling gun, was quick to tuck it back into its holster and run across the deck. There were already men trained on his heels as he sped through the ship, his goal only to reach the very tip of the front and avoid the bullets flying past him.

_BANG_

_BANG_

_BANG_

_BANG_

Iwai had promised him a stronger vest this time, and _goddammit_ if it wasn’t going to work again.

Akira weaved through the few people loitering the deck, his breath laboured as he scaled the few stairs leading to the front of the ship. Not once did he dare try to look behind him, only turning to face the men in pursuit of him once his back pressed against the rails, the crash of the waves and the smell of the sea invading his senses. In his ears, he heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and putting him _right_ into survival mode.

There was no point in trying to count how many guards had their guns aimed at his head, and so Akira made only to climb up the railing slowly, the grin forming on his cheeks pulling wider and wider. As he balanced himself on the topmost rail, he’d only spare a glance beneath the hull before he turned to them, a salute waved off from the top of his mask.

“See ya!”

He bowed, showman-like in his pose as he always was, and it was only after he heard the numerous clicks did he straighten once again to hop off the edge of the ship— the grin never leaving his cheeks and the weight in his heart feeling heavier than ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O H G O D THIS WAS A DOOZY 
> 
> [y'all thought i was playin when i said chapters could reach 15k n O I WAS N O T PLAYIN Y'ALL AT A L L](https://twitter.com/relictionism/status/1271005206025654277)
> 
> how's the pacing on these kinds of chapters for y'all, btw ? got any constructive criticism for me to try out ? i have n e v e r gone for a longer chapter format that's just j a m p a c k e d with plot so im like,,, what the hell am i doing 
> 
> an y w a y, a quick thing  
> ya girl is transferring unis and the place already sent me what requirements i gotta pass to get enrolled into the school  
> i gotta do that by the 25th  
> though i h a v e gotten most of the documents i need already, this may still mean that track 32's going to be a lil bit delayed from our usual "update every two weeks" schedule  
> so yeah !! 
> 
> thanks for reading y'all  
> im honestly just v proud of myself for finishing this one bc tHIS IS ANOTHER THING I'VE BEEN WANTING TO WRITE FOR S O LONG NOW though the concept was entirely different from the final product smksmksmks 
> 
> i'll see y'all when i see y'all  
> stay safe  
> have a good day  
> stay hydrated  
> bye 
> 
> listen list !!  
> the national - nobody else will be there  
> kotomi and ryan elder - don't look back  
> jaymes young (ft. phoebe ryan) - we won't  
> koala lieu - les feuilles mortes


	4. Track 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> piercing.

On the banks by the sea, far from the piers, Akira Kurusu slumped against the mud and grass. His head rang. The world spun more than just a bit. He remained mostly-upright by his knees, the breaths he heaved in and out making him curl into himself more with each inhale taken in through his lips, each exhale he pushed out of his lungs, each time his brilliant, red gloves skidded and dug further into the earth. By his side, Morgana stood over him, and Akira wasn’t sure where the man’s eyes rested, but as of the moment, he couldn’t give much thought to it.

The white noise was too piercingly-loud in his ears, flashes of the moments sped up far too fast in his mind’s eye for him to process it.

Why did he feel like he was drowning?

“ _Breathe_ , Arsene.”

As if he wasn’t putting every working braincell he had into _doing_ that.

“We’ve still got a long way to go before we’re safe.”

He knew that. More than anything, it was the danger of being out in the open still that made him gasp at air. Akira just couldn’t _breathe_.

But Morgana was right.

Out in the distance, Akira could still see the ship they’d fled from, though his eyes squinted to keep it in focus for more than two seconds. The golden hall could be seen even from afar, as faint as it was, with lights glittering and starkly-bright against the dark waters and darker skies. If he weren’t _just_ there, he would’ve thought that the party still went at full swing, the bodies moving around within looking like ants that scrambled among themselves. Had the panic he caused finally settled? Were they trying to keep the guests calmed even after what he stirred?

Was Shido confessing to his crimes?

It wasn’t at all likely, but Akira expected as much.

With another breath heaved in through his lips (a painstaking task requiring a Herculean amount of effort,) his eyes trailed across the sea, closer and closer to the banks until they rested upon the jet ski he and Morgana rented for the sole purpose of escaping from that damned cruise ship. Again, Morgana’s voice pierced the silence of whatever closed park they found themselves at, and at the sound, Akira shook his head (mostly to himself) to regain whatever sense of self he had after that whole debacle.

“Can you stand?”

It was with a final shudder did Akira nod in response, one of his feet planting itself onto the ground. His fingers made for the domino mask laying beside him as he stood up, having ripped it off his face the exact moment they got to shore.

The water had weighed his clothes down, made his bones feel tons heavier than they actually were— but well, at least his coat was leather and waterproof. The article was heavy enough as it was, and Akira didn’t need his muscles to protest further when they still had the path back to trek.

“I’m fine. Let’s regroup before anyone finds us.”

Akira was already walking ahead— staggered, more like.

It didn’t take too long before they found themselves at the familiar trail they hiked to get to the banks, walking silently in the dark of late night. His eyes stayed to the ground and his hands moved almost on their own accord when they found the black motorcycle, hidden behind bushes and under a blanket of leaves. As Morgana retrieved their helmets from another bush, Akira was already wheeling it out back onto the roads, coat folded up by his arm, mask tucked securely into its pockets.

Soon, with Akira holding onto his coat and mask, and with wet hair sticking to his skin under his helmet, they sped across the highways of Odaiba.

Passing by a familiar hotel, his lips were zipped, memories of a night that seemed like it happened an eternity ago disappearing as quick as the building had, behind all the trees and highways. Entering Roppongi, he kept his head down, a phantom pain stinging his arm— that which had long healed by that point. In Shibuya, he’d only watch as the lights of buildings and advertisements flew by them, people-watching (maybe, searching for familiar faces in the crowd) even as they sped through the streets. It was only when they arrived to the outskirts of Harajuku did he hum amongst the revving of the motorcycle and the quietness of the alley they ducked into, a small sound stuck in his throat once they pulled up to the shoddy, unassuming factory building.

It had been abandoned years ago. When life had been simpler, Akira could even remember passing by it sometimes on his way back to The Metaverse from whichever part of Tokyo he wandered into. It was dilapidated on some sides, with the metal support beams rusted over and the pale, dirty white paint on the sturdy walls chipped in most places, but it still held up and no one went near it. Tucked away behind alleys and fenced behind worn “ _DO NOT ENTER_ ” signs, the factory was the next best thing to a hideout.

Because there was no Metaverse now. Akira burned it to the ground with his own two hands. As far as he knew, this factory was the new _home_.

Morgana slipped the motorcycle under a break in the chain-link fence after Akira already entered the premises, his shoes leaving wet trails in the broken concrete where grass sprouted through. Climbing up the staircase, naught but the sound of his heels clicking upon the rusted steps echoed into the quiet of the night until he reached the single (accessible) entrance, and from there, he only knocked in that small sequence to let Futaba know it was them, all before he twisted the knob and dragged his own body inside.

“We’re back,” he called out, his voice dragging with the exhaustion weighing in his bones. Immediately, he heard the cacophony of Futaba’s typing grind to a halt, right as Akira fell onto one of the sofas parallel to where the redhead sat.

He didn’t give a single fuck if he was soaking the cushions, or if the dust they hadn’t cleaned yet clung to his back and clothes. Akira Kurusu was exhausted in all the ways a man could be exhausted. It was evident enough when he let his coat and mask clatter to the floor carelessly from what weak excuse of a grip he had on them, the back of his gloved hands covering his eyes as he finally felt himself _breathe_.

“.. Welcome back.”

Akira gave her a thumbs up before his hand fell limp.

Even with two, simple words, he heard the anxiety and relief released in Futaba’s voice, that small breath she held awaiting their (relatively) safe return. Before his earpiece got ruined as he dived into the sea, all Futaba had gotten on her end was the sound of gunshots and more, ready and loaded, aimed at his head. Akira understood that nothing would quell her fears except physically seeing him and Morgana return to base.

Well, there he was now— even if he looked dead as dust whilst he laid unmoving on the couch.

“Are you guys injured?” he heard her ask, the question more likely aimed at Morgana after the man had locked the door behind him. Akira only got the auditory cue that Morgana had been anywhere close to _near them_ when the sound of his body meeting with the cushions reached his ears, the hairs at the back of his neck standing straight in a bit of alarm.

Morgana was always quiet, light on his feet and almost never making a sound. Akira could never hear him coming if he wasn’t straining his ears to listen— but well, could he really expect anything less from the man that trained him to be one of underground Tokyo’s most infamous thieves?

“No, we’re fine. It was smooth.”

A beat of silence followed, one spent by Futaba chancing a glance at him.

“And Akira..?”

“Tired,” Akira replied, his tone clipped in tiredness, “Too much happened. I’m _tired_.”

That should’ve been enough.

Before meeting with Goro, Akira had tuned into his earpiece, let Futaba know he was going to mute his mic for a bit with no other warning after the fact. The spike of adrenaline fading from his veins had maybe exaggerated how physically exhausted he felt, but the emotional beating he got over the span of a few hours was enough to leave him weak.  
First, he had to restrain himself from jumping off that balcony the _second_ he saw familiar, brown locks enter his line of sight, and then there was busting ass from the musicians’ stage to the engine room to change into his getup after the main pianist had returned, then the bullet to his heart seeing Goro _look at him_ for the first time in a too-long time, and then the conversation they had and then finding out that the love of his life was the _son_ of the target he was after and—

 _Fuck_.

Akira wanted to scream. Instead, he settled for groaning into the leather of his gloves. He needed to get knocked out, maybe drown his veins in some hard alcohol— probably _both_.  
But he had errands to run the next day and he wouldn’t be able to do it hungover. God knows he’d end himself right then and there if he entered the name “ _Akira Kurusu_ ” instead of “ _Ren Amamiya_ ” on the documents he’ll have to fake.

So he couldn’t drink.

And he didn’t have anything else to occupy him.

The night sucked.

“Hey, uh..” Futaba’s voice murmured, the sound of her footsteps nearing him making Akira peer an eye open through a gap between his fingers. “You should get to bed. I can handle sending out the evidence.”

There was already an “ _I’m fine_ ” ready on his lips, always steadfast on reassuring her that he was okay. Before Akira had the chance to voice the words, though, he felt the small weight of his coat placed onto his stomach, hands moving from his eyes now to watch as Futaba picked his mask off the floor and hold it out to him.

“Get some sleep, Akira.”

His gaze went to Morgana as the man himself leaned back against the opposite couch, the sharp shade of his irises piercing in the dark of their base, the tone in his voice holding a finality Akira could never fight against.

With a sigh (sounding more like a whine than anything,) he pushed himself up, grabbing his mask along the way before his shoes met the floor once more. He was silent as he gathered the coat, hugged it close to his chest. A silent nod bobbed from his chin, and tiredly, he’d make his way to one of the beds they pushed to the corner of the large room, divided from the rest of the floor only by thin, concrete walls with broken windows.

“Goodnight, then.”

He didn’t really care that he was dripping a wet trail up to his futon. Maybe more accurately, he lacked the ability to care. As he flopped down, all he could really let into his brain was the quiet, ever-present hum of the generator tucked to the farthest corner of their hideout, the noise permeating his ears even as he laid on his side and covered both ears with the single pillow beneath his head.  
Akira could say he found it comforting, in a way. If it weren’t for that humming, his thoughts would’ve dived back to the earlier events of the night, would’ve replayed the sequences over and over like a dream he refused to release— and that wouldn’t have been _ideal_ for the him who’d desperately needed some peace of mind, even just for tonight.

The days leading up to that faithful evening were already hellish enough. He still had shit to do the next day, figure out what happens next after Futaba released their information to the public. Would he still even be able to walk out into the world as Akira Kurusu? It didn’t seem likely, if he were to be honest.

_Was it worth it?_

Of course, it was.

_Was throwing away the life you had worth making the truth come to light?_

There was no doubt about it.

_What if it wasn’t?_

He willed the voice in the back of his head to shut up. Though it was his own, the words betrayed the will he had in himself.

But was it really?

For a second, Akira didn’t even believe it was his own, not at all. It drawled, too much reverb making it echo within the overflowing sea of his thoughts, low like the baritone in his throat yet creeping to the edge of a bass. There was some hint of vitriol there, some cynicism that was far past his own. The more he thought about it, the more he could pick apart the differences.

It wasn’t his voice. At the same time, it was undeniably Akira Kurusu speaking within his head.

Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about it too much.

He squeezed his eyes harder.

Akira spent the remainder of the night thinking about it. _Far_ too much. When dusk neared and sleep finally decided to come to him, his body could only twist and turn, his head surrounded by blood and the faces at the business end of his barrel.

* * *

_Click_

He placed the gun on one side of the workbench, adding it to the pile.

_Click_

Pushed another magazine into place.

_Click_

Cocked the gun.

“Almost done there?”

Added it to the pile.

“Yeah.”

Akira leaned back into his seat, arms stretching up as he heard the _pop_ of his joints cracking back into place. Sitting for hours within the backroom of Untouchable was something he hadn’t done in years, and maybe it was just him getting old (he was already twenty-four, after all,) but doing this was still as much of a pain in the ass as it used to be at nineteen.

Behind him, he heard Iwai chuckle, the light from the store streaking through what little space the owner himself didn’t take up from leaning against the doorframe. Telltale stickler-for-the-details Iwai Munehisa stood there for a bit, only watching Akira go through the motions of loading model guns and cocking the barrel, a small job to work on that Akira offered to do.

He really didn’t have much else planned for the day except get those documents forged and restock on supplies, the part he had any actual input on during the former happening much too quickly for his tastes. From where he sat, the only background noise he was treated to was the constant clicking of his actions and the white noise stuck on a repeated loop in his head, and though it’d been driving him to the edge of madness these past few months, Akira had (somehow) learned to tuck it away to the back burner of his brain, turn down the volume on it. Sometimes, the sound of Kaoru’s voice all the way from the counter served as a nice distraction for when the high pitch rang far too loud, the small boy Akira had met only once or twice before all grown up into a cleaner teenager than he and Iwai ever were.

At the thought, Akira found an incredulous grin tugging up from one corner of his lips, a snicker bubbling in his throat. Even the gruff hum sounding off from behind him didn’t make Akira’s humour waver.

Or maybe, he just didn’t let anything disturb the small reprieve he found from his thoughts.

“Somethin’ funny?”

“Nah, not really,” he countered, quick and easy, “I just never thought the day would come when I could say _“that kid’s all grown up_. _”_ ”

A pause hung in the air, though it wasn’t long after that that he heard the man’s heavy footfalls approach him. Even as he felt Iwai’s presence drawing nearer, Akira remained relaxed and trained onto his task, able to stay calm even if the buff, former-yakuza had an air around him that once made Akira shiver.

Iwai had a misleading demeanour, really. Under all those gruff hums and eyes that could kill, he was a kind man, though not exactly the _softest_. That was what Akira learned working with him.

“Honestly, kid? With _your_ job? Didn’t think so either.”

Akira could only hum in response, grin falling by mere millimetres as he set back on finishing the last of the model guns.

“I’d say that’s a low blow, but honestly?”

_Click_

“Same.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder then, Iwai’s grip firm enough to make Akira pause, turn his head to look up at the man. Unlike the usual, that trademark lollipop Iwai had always munched on was absent from his lips, a low frown sitting in its place. The shadows casting onto his face from the hat the older man had worn emphasised the stern look in his eyes, accentuated the furrow of his brows that made the wrinkles on Iwai’s forehead more pronounced.

“They’re still lookin’ for you.”

Akira turned back to cocking another gun, smile fallen from his face completely.

_Click_

“I know.”

“And you’re _still_ goin’ out here in broad daylight?” The tone in the older man’s voice held more than an ounce of incredulity. “Kid, you can’t be that stupid.”

“It’s why I’m getting those files forged.”

_Click_

Iwai’s hand slipped from his shoulder, and without looking at him, Akira could just about _see_ the older man cross his arms over his chest.

“A fake ID ain’t gonna cut it for too long. Y’gotta do something about your hair or somethin’.”

Placing the final gun onto the pile, Akira slumped forwards, elbows on the table and a cheek to his knuckle. For a bit, he looked up at the bangs above his glasses, fumbled with a lock absentmindedly with his fingers.

“I have a generic-enough face,” he sighed, grabbing his jacket off the seat and getting on his feet, “But I’ll see what I can do about it. When can I come to pick up my stuff?”

“Three days. How many cartridges do you need with the Desert Eagle?”

Akira shrugged on his coat, flipping the hood low over his face as he nodded past Iwai.

“Five. I don’t need more than five.”

He didn’t want to know what would happen if he had more than five.  
For a second, the faces of the men in that lab (hidden far away up in the mountains of Nagano) flashed to his subconscious, a tenseness erupting into his muscles, his furrows slanting down as a headache pounded its way into his head. Akira kept his eyes to the floor and the tight fists of his hands hidden in the coat pockets, only muttering a single thanks to Iwai before he pushed through the backroom’s door.

_“In a stunning turn of events, the Prime Minister seems to have found himself an heir!”_

But because Akira Kurusu could never catch a break in this world, he was stopped dead in his tracks just past the mini TV set onto the counter, its screen angled enough for him to catch sight of a man with brunette locks and eyes that outshined the Sun.

_“Isn’t **that** a surprise, Miss Yukimura?” _

_“Haha, I have to agree! Prime Minister Shido was lucky to find him!”_

The beginnings of a snarl found its way to his lips, the voices of the talk-show hosts fading into a background noise in his ears. Once a photo of the previous night’s events flashed onto the screen (ones before his intervention, anyway) Akira could recognise the scene almost immediately— It was just right before he crashed the party, with Goro Akechi standing before the podium, eyes looking dead under his mask (Akira could tell how he tried to hide it with joy spread thick onto his smile, though) and Prime Minister Masayoshi Shido towering beside him. Though Goro was taller, there was no denying how he looked as if overshadowed by the thinly-veiled scrutiny in Shido’s eyes, the expectations weighing down Goro’s broad shoulders.

“Oh, are you already finished, Kurusu?”

Before he turned to face Kaoru, though, Akira wiped every trace of the scowl clean off his face, replacing it instead with a simple smile. His head bobbed into a nod, hands burying themselves deeper within his pockets.

“Ah, ah, ah.” He shook his head a bit, almost as if scolding a fledgling. “Not my name anymore, Kaoru. Try again.”

“Fine,” the boy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest much in the way Iwai did. It was easy to see how Kaoru had tried to fight off the (nervous) smile pulling up the corners of his lips, though. “Big bro _Amamiya_. Are you leaving already?”

Akira shrugged in response, eyes sliding from the boys barely-matured face, to the screen in front of him.

“What’s on the news, squirt?”

“I dunno,” Kaoru mimicked his shrug, “All the channels are just talking about this Akechi guy and the prime minister. They’ve been at it all _morning_!”

_So, nothing about what we threatened last night, then.._

A chuckle dripped off his tongue easily, head tilting to the side a bit as he eyed Kaoru.

“What, it ruin your sentai marathon or something?”

“Well.. _Yeah_!”

“ _Nerd_ ,” Akira laughed again, reaching over the counter to ruffle the boy’s hair— up until Kaoru swatted his hand away, much like Futaba would. “Stay in school, squirt. See ya.”

Kaoru nodded at him (Akira noticing how it looked more tentative than dismissive) and before he could push through the front entrance of Untouchable, he paused at the sound of the boy calling out to him.

“Uh.. Big bro?”

He could only turn his head silently, face mostly-hidden beneath his hoodie.

“Changing your name and getting another gun and all.. Be safe, okay?”

Akira waved him off with a salute, a barely-visible smile on his cheeks before he pushed out of Untouchable. He knew Kaoru had never been much ignorant to the lives of crime he and Iwai had led, and maybe it was just common sense to think that all the preparations Akira’d been doing was because he’d gotten into some _deep shit_ , but he had to hand it to Kaoru— Kid could sense danger from a mile away, and still make Featherman more of a priority than anything. He stood on that fine line between innocence and knowing just _enough_ , knew how to keep himself there. In a way, Akira envied him, if he were to be honest.

But well, wouldn’t any rotten adult envy the innocence of childhood? That wide-eyed naiveté? Akira could think of a number of people who would give anything to be able to view the world with much less bloodshed and tragedy, and that included himself.

With hands in his pockets, he stepped out into Shibuya, head down, eyes to the ground. The afternoons made it so Central Street always swarmed with crowds of people all around, whether it be in front of the shops or walking down the pavement. What were the chances that anyone in these hundreds of groups still remembered the bounty on his head? What were his odds of being recognised?

Not much, if he thought about it (rather, he hoped.) Akira was always a _fade into the background_ kind of face. He just had the added benefit of knowing how to stick to the side-lines and weave through the crowds.

So, doing exactly that, he navigated his way to a building right at the heart of Shibuya, making sure to avoid the eyes of security cameras as he slinked past the glass doors. Passing by the entrance, though, he’d only glance at the sign spelling “ _Studio tour today!_ ”

The inside was what he expected this type of place to look like: A lobby lined with magazine covers on the beige walls, showcased by bright lights under the frames. On some of them, he saw a few familiar faces: Risette, mainly, but there was also that woman with flowing, blonde hair and eyes like mint candy, surrounded by the same shade of red as her lipstick. She wasn’t kidding when she said she modelled, and though he never took her granted for it, he just didn’t exactly expect her to have been featured in a famous fashion magazine— multiple times.  
Behind the front desk were two displays, hung above the big sign of the company’s logo, short, transparent shelves filled with brochures and pamphlets placed on the counter. Before a man standing at the front, a small group of onlookers talked amongst themselves, glancing around what they could run their eyes over and smiling at the cameraman who, ever so often, shot photos of them.

Akira made sure to stay relatively within the back of the group, avoiding the photographer as their tour guide spoke.

“Please remember to stay with the group while we go through the building, everyone. Today, I’ll be guiding you through what happens here in _Tokyo Plus_!”

They followed behind him as the guide strolled towards glass elevators, Akira opting to stand in the corner and keep his face under the white hoodie. From where he stood, he had a clear view of Shibuya shrinking further and further beneath them as they ascended to the fourth floor of the building. Trailing behind, the first thing he saw from the hallway were the photographers and finely-dressed women flitting in and out of the rooms.

“ _This_ is where we take photos of our models. Tokyo Plus is one of the country’s top-selling fashion magazines. We take pride in the work that we do here and the people that we have the honour of working alongside—”

Akira decided to tune out the guide as they walked further into the hallway. From what he could see of doors flying open and closing just as quickly, the right side beheld all the photography rooms, with walls of different colours and set pieces placed immaculately in front of lightning equipment. On the left, he ran his eyes over the small, glossy cards placed beside the doors, each plate having a different name as they passed. He figured those were the dressing rooms.

He was looking for one in particular, though.. Morgana _urged_ him to make sure he was able to drop it off before day’s end. Suddenly, the weight of the pink slip in his bag made itself known, Akira only glancing down upon it through the small gap of the zipper.

Turning to the left, he saw more doors.

“We asked special permission from them today, but please take care not to overwhelm the models.” The guide nodded out towards them, all before pushing open a set of double doors.

As they filed inside, the first thing Akira caught note of was how absolutely _dark_ the studio was. There didn’t seem to be windows, and there weren’t any of those tall lights placed in front of where he could vaguely guess was the camera was. In his ears, he heard the distinct shutter of the device being operated, and though he knew logically that this was still a harmless tour, he couldn’t help but stay on edge.

It felt just like Aerial Pharmaceutical’s base.

Akira buried himself deeper within the confines of his jackets, bottom lip caught between his teeth as they followed the guide.

After a few paces taken, the presence of colour was just about the last thing he expected to see, in this all-encompassing darkness—Neons decorated what must’ve been the set, splashes and splatters of icy blue and chemical greens around two models. One of them had been decorated with different tones of white and blue, the glow of her jewellery producing a small light that bounced off the skin of her collarbones and wrists, gave you a picture of what was where with the earrings swishing from her ears, the headband pushing her hair back. What really caught his eye, though, were the reds and pinks draped upon the other model, with neon, glow-in-the-dark extensions flowing with her long, blonde pigtails, what looked to be small spikes from the bright, pink belts crossing from her hips, the shades that glowed as bright as her eyes.

With a final shot taken of the two models, the lights were switched on. Akira found himself releasing the breath he’d been holding as he could finally get visual confirmation that he was, in fact, in Tokyo; That he was not, for that matter, stuck in Nagano some seven levels underground. He was fine. He was _okay_.

He held his breath, held it in his lungs as he re-gathered whatever semblance of calm he had left, only to release it again when he found himself once more. The group he was with had already stepped up to the models and were crowding them for photos.

He had to admit, Ann looked _really_ good. The grunge, urban style suited her, what with the leather, dress that had been unzipped to show _more_ than her shoulders, the red, velvet bra seen under the sweater made of black, fishnet mesh, those mismatched stockings finished with platformed boots. From her neck, he caught sight of a golden choker, and on her lips, the bright red lipstick that seemed almost like her trademark.

Watching her from the back of the group, Akira could really only watch as she took photos with the rest of them, the smile pulled wide from her cheeks so bright and dazzling that it suited her side-line career in modelling. It was reminiscent of how she’d act towards her class in dance, so easily socialising and sliding into hugs— from the few times he’d seen her through the glass doors of the practise rooms, anyway, when he’d occasionally pick Goro up from work.

They were given a few minutes to talk to the models and ask about their work, and through the entire time, Akira stood by the back, head down and a hand buried into his bag. When the guide had begun to escort them out the studio, and the lights once more dimmed, he made his move.  
Falling behind again, he’d pass by Ann, nudging the pink envelope into her hand. Though their contact lasted mere seconds, he could still feel the way she’d flinched, head snapping to his direction— but by the time that’d happened, he was already back to sticking to the back of the group, slouched over with his hands in his pockets.

He wondered what that slip contained the rest of the tour. Really, Morgana was mysterious in every way imaginable (from the way he spoke of events at times, to the things he had Akira do) but even as much as he trusted the man, he was still curious. Somehow, there was a weight to the envelope—both literally _and_ metaphorically—a little something like a feeling he’d once felt before. The stiffness to it felt familiar to Akira’s fingers, the tiniest bit of an indent felt through the paper something he knew.

Maybe he would ask Morgana about it later, as slim as the chances of him answering Akira in full were.

But he shouldn’t be dwelling about it— not _now_ , at least, when he still had one more delivery to do.

The last of their stop had been the editing room of the company’s sister branch, placed right in the second floor. Stretching across the office were cubicles upon cubicles, a multitude of papers pinned to each divider, photos and clippings and whatever else. They walked through the sides, Akira only half-heartedly listening to the guide as his eyes searched for a familiar bob cut, the probably-hungover slouch of a certain journalist.

“I _know_ , but the story is _big_!”

Well, speak of the Devil.

From the end of the room, he heard the familiar drag of her voice, just a note of sternness he’d heard more than once before in her tone. Ohya Ichiko had stood up in front of another journalist, hands flying up, and yet there was a grin on her face, something forced judging by the way it struggled to stay up.

He had no idea what she was yelling about, but he had business here. When they neared her desk, Akira pulled out the other, larger envelope from his bag as discreetly as he could, slipping it atop the other papers scattered across the edge of her desk when they passed.

Now, all that was left was to wait. Futaba had already given her the evidence regarding Masayoshi Shido, but if there was anyone who knew how to track down long, forgotten stories, then Ohya was your woman. They’d already paid her handsomely with the information they had, now he only counted on her to bring it forward.

Once the tour ended, the sun had already set. What the hell would Akira Kurusu do with the rest of his day _now_? He couldn’t really say.  
It was far too dangerous to keep roaming around the city for long, and paying his respects to the grave of his beloved club seemed like a _pretty_ bad idea. Leblanc was completely out of the question, and he couldn’t really find a part-time job to slave away the rest of his hours with. He _could_ work on music— if only every computer and laptop he had didn’t blow up in the fire.

It was in these moments that Akira finally asked himself: “ _Who am I?_ ”

He was virtually nothing without his music, that much he knew. Joker made up a third of his personality because of the sole reason that music had been with him since he could walk, let alone use his voice. DJ-ing again seemed.. _tempting_. But he wouldn’t go down that route again until he was a free man—if he would _ever_ become a free man again, anyway—for reasons that piled over his head. Now that he thought about it, getting into direct contact with anyone he knew (save for Futaba and Morgana) would look suspicious, make them a target. It was already risky getting anywhere near Ann and Ohya as it were, so maybe Akira shouldn’t become more selfish than he already was.

Wait, where were his feet taking him? He should already be in Harajuku. He should already be back at the factory and ruminating over his existential crisis where it was _safe_ and—

“Ah, fuck me..”

Of course.

Of _fucking_ course.

One look at his surroundings told him where he was. It only took a heartbeat for Akira to orient himself and know precisely how far away he was from the back-alley clinic, from the secondhand shop that’d closed _so_ long ago, from a café that boasted of warm lights and a warmer atmosphere and _fuck him_ , he guessed, because he was in Yongen-Jaya and Leblanc was just two turns away.

_Goddammit, Akira._

Goddammit, indeed.

Could he really blame himself for relying on his feet to take him _home_ , though? When _home_ was still Leblanc and it was a fact that was too deeply-rooted into his muscle memory?

Yes. The answer was _yes_ because Akira was too dumb to be a man on the run, much less one of Japan’s most wanted.

Maybe he should’ve turned back. There was a voice in the back of his head yelling at every fibre of his entire being to _keep away_ and trek the rest of the path back to Harajuku. While he slipped into the small space between a house and Leblanc, that same voice was calling him every profanity in the book. When he climbed onto the tree and scaled its branches up to his old attic window, he could _feel_ the exact moment that voice gave up on him, silencing in time with his feet meeting the crickety, wooden floor of his old attic.

He was just here to pick up the old infiltration tools he hid in the corner. Yeah. That was _definitely_ why he came here. _Absolutely_. It wasn’t just because he missed home, nor because he wanted ( _needed_ ) to feel just a semblance of the life he’d willingly let go again. Yeah, that wasn’t it at _all_.

_You fucking liar._

Well, there wasn’t much of a point lying to himself now, was there?

His attic looked.. Well, _cluttered_ would be understating it. There was more dust on his old futon, the floors just clean enough for Sojiro’s sacks of coffee beans to be safe. The shelf where he’d kept knick-knacks broke in two (probably by the weight of all the beans that was _attempted_ to be placed there) and the potted plant next to it was nowhere to be seen, but at least the work desk in the corner still stood, albeit with some of its wrenches missing.

Even from up above, he could still hear the faint hum of music from his radio on the café’s counter, some voices chattering excitedly down below. Leblanc was still open.

Yeah, he probably shouldn’t be here for too long.

With steps as quiet as he could take (amongst the quiet screeches of the worn, attic floor,) Akira approached the desk, his palm running over the dusty surface. He began pushing it out of the corner bit by bit—an attempt at making the least noise as possible—before he squatted down, reached a hand within the space he made. There was a panel on the floor he could remove, the space beneath it where he’d kept some lockpicks, a few smoke bombs. If memory served him right, there should be a dagger there, too— a precaution of his that formed into a habit.

It’d taken more than he’d like to admit before Akira managed to pry off the wooden panel, only blindly reaching within as he felt around for the plastic-wrapped tools he made so long ago. He felt the smoke bombs, retrieved them as fast as he could, before his hand dived into the small compartment once again for the lockpicks and possibly even the knife.  
The dagger itself was something of a memento to him, less a simple blade and more of a treasure that held just a bit of sentimental value to it. He would’ve been called a psychopath, maybe, but he valued his first weapon, kept it safe— because it was the one gifted to him by Morgana.

Its design was simple, though unlike most daggers out there: the shine of its silver rivalled even that of the moon’s, with a black grip that extended to three-quarters of the blade, tapering with the edges to a fine point. Holding it in place were two, golden nuts on either side of the hollow circle cut between the blade and handle, two, smaller nuts at each end of the latter.  
Even under the dim moonlight streaking through the attic’s open windows, the dagger had shined in his grasp, Akira pulling it out of the hole carefully. As he inspected the weapon once more, he could see the faint scratches riddling the blade, those that were already in place when Morgana had given it to him.

It seemed worn, run a bit of its course already, but it cut like the tight strings of a piano. When Akira gave it a test slash through the air, the quick swipe of its blade across the dust floating amongst the attic still left that quick and faint _swish_ in his ears, and at the sound, Akira found a grin creeping up his cheeks.

Ah, he was _so_ glad he never took it back to The Metaverse. Old reliable was too valuable to be burned like it was nothing.

Retrieving the lockpicks came easy next, once Akira felt out the only other area he hadn’t yet explored. Stuffing the items back into his bag (and adding extra care for his dear, old dagger) Akira gave one, last look around his room— where it all began.

And, for just a moment, he stopped. _Breathed_.  
He looked down upon the futon still sitting above wooden crates, the dilapidated shelf against the wall, the bags of coffee beans stacked upon that spare couch from the café. Breathing in the dusty air of his old attic, Akira closed his eyes for just a _second_ , let himself live in that one, short moment, as all the memories of the past seven years flitted through his mind like a sped-up film.

He shouldn’t linger for too long, and Akira knew that far too well.

Climbing back onto the window sill, he’d only give a lasting look to the depression on the floor, where his body had once been thrown into— and he’d have chuckled in nostalgia, if not for the sound of footsteps creaking up the staircase, far too quiet to be Sojiro’s.

He decided to get the Hell outta dodge before whomever decided to sneak up into the attic could find him there.

* * *

“ _So_.”

He was met with silence.

“Are we going to have a discussion about it, or..?”

Akira slumped into the couch further, feet up on the other armrest. His arms had crossed themselves over his chest as he looked to nothing and nowhere but Morgana, who only sat on the opposite sofa. Futaba herself was settled next to the other man, headphones around her head and listening intently to whatever was on the wire.

Nothing but the hum of the generator could be heard amidst the air around them.

From his coat pocket, Akira pulled out that familiar, fuchsia card, flipped it around between his index and middle finger, almost as if showing it off. Taking a glance at Morgana, it was obvious enough how the man’s bright eyes followed the movement, and Akira would only settle back down after he threw it over to him.

Morgana caught the tarot card with ease, naught but the sharp movement of his arm really giving an indication that he was still animated.

“ _Le Mat_ ,” Morgana had read, the French easy on his tongue, “The Fool.”

Akira nodded simply, eyes still intent on the other.

“You’ve been the one giving these out, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t really much of a question, and neither was it an accusation either— Akira had spoken it more as if it were a guess at a game, a shot in the dark. Morgana focused back on him from behind the card, a sigh falling from his lips.

He didn’t quite look _defeated_ , per se; The look on his face was more akin to the cat being out of the bag than anything. Akira couldn’t find a single trace of disappointment, nor embarrassment there, no anger nor anything— the only way he could really, aptly put it was _acceptance_.

Sitting up, he watched as Morgana straightened his back, looking like he was getting ready for either another game of “ _omit as many details as possible_ ” or “ _explain it all_.”

Which would it be, he wondered?

“Why.”

“I was told to.”

Akira felt his brows press down.

“By who?”

Morgana remained unblinking as he stared back at him.

“My boss.”

Well, that was new. As far as Akira had known, Morgana operated on his own free will— A cat that listened to no one.

“For what _reason_ , then?”

The room stilled into silence again, and Akira counted the seconds as he watched the other man think. He tried to see how the cogs in Morgana’s head turned, decipher what it was that swirled in those ever-bright, piercingly-blue eyes. It didn’t surprise him to find that a task like that was still nigh-impossible.

Finally, after a moment or three, a sigh fell into the air.

“I’m not sure myself,” Morgana muttered, his gaze casting to the side. It felt less like he was avoiding looking at Akira, more like he could find the answers if he looked to the concrete floors. Akira followed his line of sight, for only very briefly, before his eyes slid back to the other man.

“You know how we work with clients, Akira. We don’t ask questions.”

So, was it a client or a boss?

Akira pursed his lips together, feet pushing up into the cushions as he hugged them to his chest. He wouldn’t get much more out of Morgana, and he never really could coax the full details out of him. What he got was all he would have (for now, maybe,) so it was near-pointless to keep prodding at the man.

Besides, he was right. Oftentimes, in their line of work, knowing as little as possible was the next best thing to keep your life.

That just didn’t mean it still didn’t frustrate him to the ends of the earth, though.

From the floor, Akira retrieved the dagger from within his bag, getting onto his feet soon after. He’d pad towards the circling staircase in the corner of the room, wordless and quiet as he descended into what once was the main manufacturing area.

He needed to let out some steam, keep himself sane while they waited for what news would pop up in regards to their discoveries. With no music to play and no other friends to go to, the only thing he had left was Arsène.

Hell, maybe spending some time as Arsène was good for him.

Down below, Akira pushed the large button beside the stairs, palm to the dirty walls as he watched each light flicker to life. Dim as they were, he could still make out the rotting, wooden crates and the few, dusted containers. In the corners were dividers much like the rooms from their base, and pushed to the walls were long-forgotten machinery, assembly lines frozen in time and rotted by the years all in the same breath. He was grateful for the empty space in the middle of the floor, his sneakers leaving footfalls to echo amongst the high walls as he stepped closer and closer.

Underneath one of the lights, Akira looked up, dagger gripped tight in his right hand. He made to shrug off his coats, leave him with the black shirt loosely-fitted around his frame, and with a single, deep breath taken in through his lips, he’d close his eyes.

Wrapped in darkness, Akira slashed the dagger through the air.

* * *

From beside his head, he could only glower as he pulled the throwing knife from the wall, a few strands of his hair falling as it once more flew through the air.

“Your reflexes are still good,” the other remarked, only sitting back into his stupidly-large office chair. Nakura didn’t look like he cared much when the knife landed onto the surface of his desk, digging into the wood almost halfway with the force of which Goro threw it.

The brunette only scoffed in response, striding up to the man’s desk. On his way, he made to move Knight to check, his stare lingering on the black piece briefly.

He knew who the Knight was now, how his actions would’ve been interpreted on Nakura’s board.

“A night like that isn’t anywhere _near_ enough to faze me. I thought you’d know that by now, Nakura.”

The man, in response, only shrugged at him concomitantly, eyes back to the book in his hand. Once Goro saw that sickening grin slide up his cheeks, he was already rolling his own eyes and glaring at him twofold more.

“It says here”—Nakura placed his finger onto a page, like Goro could even see what in the straight Hell he was reading—“That crows remember faces and the people that wronged them. They hold grudges, you see, and they never forget.”

“Are you finished?”

“Not quite.”

“Fuck you,” he groaned, a hand dragging against his face, “Can we get to the point here? What did you call me over for?”

The book he’d been reading slammed closed, placed right next to the throwing knife before Nakura stood up. Picking up a folder off his desk, he rounded the table as he stepped closer to Goro, the brunette being careful to watch his every move.

He leaned back against his desk after tossing the folder, its contents spilling onto the coffee table Goro stood beside.

“How was the after-party, by the way? Your boyfriend makes for one hell of an entertainer.”

“Shitty.” Goro picked up the folder, flipping through the papers within. “Bodyguards wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“ _Oooh_. Did you, by any chance, punch someone, my dear Crow?”

“I could punch _you_.”

“ _Please_ , feel free to try.”

Oh, he was so very tempted. Unfortunately, though, Goro couldn’t afford to have visible cuts and bruises—not with his father’s guards watching him like a hawk every goddamn time he got anywhere near the man—so instead of charging towards Nakura (who had his arms spread out, in that flamboyantly-annoying way he always did) he slipped the folder into his bag, making a mental note to crosscheck the information with Nijima at a later date.

Goro turned on his heel to leave, not another word uttered from his lips, but as he got closer to the front door of the broker’s apartment—

“I take it back, Little Prince,” Nakura sighed, almost disappointedly, “Your reflexes need more work again.”

— all he felt was a sting blooming from his arm.

Looking down, he could see the bit of skin peeking out through his black sleeve, the bright crimson trails of his blood seeping through. The actual pain came second to the realisation that he’d been cut, Nakura’s throwing knife once more wedged into the wall.

 _Don’t do it_ , a voice in his head warned.

_Don’t give into his game._

Goro kept nearing the door.

“You told me you didn’t get soft, Crow.”

_Don’t._

Put his hand upon the doorknob.

“Show me you deserve your title.”

_You’ve done more than enough to prove yourself._

And then gripped it tight.

“Or are you just going to stand inside the house again, just _waiting_ for Mommy Crow to come back?”

_NO!_

“ _Fucker_..”

He wasn’t exactly sure when he’d dropped his bag by the door, even less when the knife was in his hand and he was running towards Nakura. Jumping onto the coffee table, he lunged at the man, but Nakura was quick to sidestep him with ease. Goro made an attempt at slashing in the direction he fled to in a split-second, his muscles tense and tightened, head empty except for the rage filling his veins.

“Come _on_ , you aren’t even trying yet!”

He missed.

Goro had long learned to control his temper when it came to fights, but he was already far past the point of no return once mention of his mother came into the fray. As he chased Nakura, the only thing that fuelled his movements was equal parts pure _instinct_ and uncut _anger_.

_CRASH_

He dodged the vase thrown his way, gripped the knife harder as Nakura dashed towards him. Though his eyes focused on the man, Goro still darted his stare around, looked for an opening. He was only a split-second too early from evading the tip of the knife Nakura had produced from his coat, rolled to the floor before coming to a stop by the coffee table.

There wasn’t any thinking when he flipped the table over, kicked it towards the man as he got up once again. While it broke into splinters, Goro jumped to one of the couches, hiding behind it before kicking one side forwards, an attempt at tripping the other. He was quick to slash into the couch’s upholstery, free hand grabbing one of the pillars of its base from within before he ripped it out of the furniture.

There was no playing fair with Nakura, so he’d use everything he could get his hands on.

Coming to his feet, he jumped onto the sofa, wooden pillar held high above his head. He feigned aiming for the other’s head, sardonic grin climbing up his cheeks when he saw a blade thrust up in retaliation. There was a second when he felt Nakura’s knife digging into the wood, but Goro took that moment to bring his own forward, managing to slice it across the man’s arm.

As Nakura grinded his teeth, Goro threw the pillar behind him, the knife coming along with it. Even if he had the advantage of his opponent being unarmed now, it didn’t mean that Nakura was any less dangerous, so he had to think on his feet.

His next move was to try and grab Nakura’s injured arm next, try to either break his wrist or fracture his bones, but when his hand had moved, he’d fly back to the floor, taking the couch he stood on down with himself. From his stomach, he could feel the outline of Nakura’s boot below his ribs, a groan bitten back on his tongue as he pushed himself out of Nakura’s foot almost coming down onto his leg.

Holding the knife close to himself, Goro flipped over and lunged at Nakura once more, tackling him to the floor. Nakura’s hands caught his wrists as he brought the knife down close to the other’s throat, just scraping against his skin before Nakura’s legs swung up from behind Goro to wrap his ankles around the brunette’s neck. Forced down onto his back, the scowl on Goro’s lips tightened, knife held so hard he couldn’t even feel his hands— but it didn’t matter, not when Nakura forced his wrists down onto the floor and gripped it by its _blade_ to pull the weapon out of his grip and throw it away.

With droplets of blood falling onto Goro’s face, he felt the white-hot pain of Nakura’s vice on his wrists. He tried to shake the other off, kick him in the back of his head because _fuck_ his flexibility needed to work on him _now_ — but Nakura was too high up and he was crushing his ribs and _fuck, fuck, **fuck** ,_ he needed to get out, he needed to get away, Goro didn’t want to jumpstart the memories he’d buried into the back of his brain from how he laid on the floor again and—

“Are you going to keep sitting there?” Nakura asked, his voice empty of the usual humour lacing his every word, “Are you going to keep sitting there and _WAITING FOR HER_?!”

He didn’t think. He _couldn’t_ think. All Goro knew next was that the taste of iron flooded his mouth and his teeth had sunken _deep_ into Nakura’s side. The man’s blood dribbled down his lips and his chin but Goro never relented, would only bite down _harder_ as Nakura struggled to push his head off. With hands now freed, he took the chance to punch him somewhere, _anywhere_ , and when he felt his fists connect to the man’s face, he took the first chance to get up.

He shouldn’t have relaxed, not even for a _nanosecond_. The moment he did, he felt the pain exploding from his cheek as Nakura’s fist flew to his cheek, knocking him back and making his knees buckle. Still, Goro kept himself up, forced his own body to keep standing because he was _not_ going to go down from a single goddamn punch.

 _Fists_. It was all they had left.

Nakura had already thrown the first punch, and so staggering forwards, he ignored the pain blooming from his ribs, hands clenched into hard balls as he dived towards the other. Though Nakura had bled in three different spots, he looked undeterred as he grabbed Goro by the hand, delivered another punch to his cheek. Goro used the grip on him to his advantage anyway, snaking his fingers around Nakura’s wrist and lifting Nakura’s arm up as his other hand dove to his stomach. Blood splattered from the bite Goro had left, spilling onto the floor though Goro didn’t let it distract him. What he didn’t expect was how fast Nakura made for his hoodie, fingers bunching into the black fabric before he pulled Goro close, punch after punch left on his face. Goro kicked his shin, made Nakura loosen by just a bit, but not before his fist connected with Goro’s face just one, last time, almost knocking him out in the process.

Falling to the floor, Goro heaved the breaths in, out, felt the sparks of pain on his midriff with each shuddering inhale and broken exhale taken through his lips, a numb tingling making itself known from back of his head. He wondered if it was from falling into the depths of being KO’d that did it or if it was from colliding with the floor. Was the world spinning? Were those bright sparks flying above his eyes?

Ah fuck, was his nose broken?

Goro brought a hand up to his chin, made an attempt at moving his jaw to see if he could still even _feel it_.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Nakura remarked, almost _too_ easily for the state he was in, “We start from the ground up again. Every night from today on.”

His back was already turned on Goro, making his way to the desk. As Goro sat up, he felt for his nose, only got the memo that blood flowed from his nostrils but his face was as okay as it got. At worse, he had to pick up a heavier concealer before he went out in public again. It just didn’t stop a snarl from forming on his lips again, though.

Nakura had been holding back. If he weren’t, Goro wouldn’t _only_ have black eyes and bruises on his face.

A first-aid kit was tossed his way, landing just feet from where he sat on the floor.

“Patch yourself up and get home, Little Prince. I’ll contact you soon if I decide on a job easy enough for the _baby_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaa im rlly sorry for the short chapter y'all :'^))  
> also for being  
> rlly rlly late, uni stuff is stressful blegh
> 
> but Y E AH  
> IT FINALLY HAPPENED  
> DOWN AND DIRTY NITTY GRITTY  
> IM READY TO FUCK THESE BOYS UP LET'S G O. 
> 
> (oh and also,,,,, [i made visuals again lmao](https://twitter.com/relictionism/status/1273697413446766592))
> 
> just like real quick though. [please help us.](https://twitter.com/meatmith/status/1278437508100087810)
> 
> listen list !!  
> stelouse - shivers n gold  
> lola blanc - angry too  
> lola blanc - real boy


	5. Track 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thundering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for graphic-ish body horror starting "He felt himself want to wretch at the sight of it all, having to stop by the door as he doubled over and into himself." and ending "It was sick."

He smells like coffee now, and it’s such a painful reminder— as much as it was also a comfort.

Café Leblanc hadn’t changed much. Even through the years that Goro had been coming there, the outside was still simple, still draped with the red and white canopy, flanked by chalkboard signs, the interior still beholding the same, rustic aesthetic. That warm and comfy atmosphere that drew Goro within the first time around was still present in the air, and though the establishment was one familiar barista short now, Goro could still recognise Café Leblanc as a second home, Sojiro as a wise, comforting friend— a father figure, even.

The man himself was busy behind the counter, wiping away the smooth, polished surface as Goro made himself useful by lending a helping hand on the booths. Amongst the spices of his locally-renowned curry and the tantalising scent of rich coffee, Boss’ cigarette had mingled with Leblanc’s unique smell, and coupled with the low, droning noise of the TV, Goro’s mind was blank and his hands moved on their own accord.

He’d stopped thinking about things much when he stepped through the door of the café. Leblanc was akin to a sanctuary away from the mess of his subconscious, finding himself passing the hours easily with coffee and a good book to his name.  
The conversations about mundane things and existential late-night thoughts shared with a man who _used_ to be ever-present here, who had dark curls and almost-comically-large glasses resting on the bridge of his nose— who smiled such a blinding smile that the sun would be jealous, who disappeared all those months ago only to re-emerge and absolutely _wreck_ what dregs of normalcy that Goro had turned into a routine without his presence.

And now, he smells like coffee.

Wherever he went, no matter however long it’d been since he left Leblanc, the aroma would stick to his hair and his clothes and there would be an ever-painful reminder stabbing at his heart looming over his head. If he were to be honest, he managed to simultaneously _hate it_ for bringing him images of dark hair and even darker eyes along with the smell, while also _finding comfort_ in the fact— because when day turned to night and he was laying in the cold of his bed alone, he could close his eyes and sniff his shirt and _pretend_ that it wasn’t his own.

Both the Gods above and the demons below knew well that he needed it.

So, there he’d been: Buried under the comforters, finding comfort in the sweater he wore to Leblanc. Through the thoughts flitting in and out of his mind (the memories of simpler times, the afterthoughts of charming smiles and club lights) he’d think back to another day blurred through the hours.  
Class was fun, at the very least. Even if it’d now been made public how he was the son of the most powerful man in the country, his fellow dancers never looked at him differently, only a few of his students really making remarks about it before, during, and after class. Likewise, though, once he stepped out of the studio and into the streets, he found himself slowly being surrounded by reporters and paparazzi, camera flashes going off in his eyes as he tried to push through the crowds and leave alongside Ann. Once stepping into Leblanc, most customers were kind enough not to bother him as he sat, tucked away in the booth farthest from the door, trying to enjoy his coffee and his book until the time had come when he’d have to travel to Ikebukuro.

At times, Ann would join him in the café, leave when her dinner date with Shiho neared; Ryuji would follow in, and then Yusuke, and they’d reconvene of the happenings at the party, reassured him that they wouldn’t treat him any better nor worse due to the circumstances of his biological family; And then, when they’d left to return to their own lives, Goro would stand up and gather the cups still sitting above the tables, bring them to the sink and then wipe down whatever leftover spills were there.

He didn’t work at Leblanc now, per se, but the change of pace helped keep him busy. Sojiro looked like he couldn’t handle all the tasks that came with running a café now, too, with his old age, so Goro stepped up to whatever miscellaneous and mundane things that needed to be done.

And besides.. Goro couldn’t miss how the light in the older man’s eyes had dimmed. It’d been _months_ since the disappearance of his daughter, and though they say that time heals all wounds, Goro had a sneaking suspicion that Futaba vanishing into the night had torn open a scar in Sojiro’s heart that’d almost healed.

Keyword being _almost_.

Sojiro had only come to check up on her bedroom a few days after the report on Akira Kurusu’s bounty (thinking that she’d needed to hole herself up again to cope with her brother’s disappearance) only to find that it was empty and that the computers had been destroyed, no traces left of the woman save for her belongings and just a fraction of her clothes.

He made sure to check up on Sojiro each time before he left, giving him not-so-subtle hints that he was always there if Sojiro needed someone to talk to—or mourn with—even if they both still held out hope for the woman’s return— no matter when that would be.

It, at least, was a nice last touch to the person he was before stepping into the shadows of Tokyo’s night.

Walking to that specific apartment building, he’d only make a mental note to tell Sojiro to maybe bring an exterminator in for the attic— Those thumps and noises above Leblanc’s ceiling sounded heavy, and he worried the man’s business would be lost to the rats.

The day ended with him battered and bruised, taking a cab back to his and Ann’s apartment at half-past two in the morning as the black hoodie covered his face. Mona silently watched him patch himself up in the bathroom after a shower, his tail swishing back and forth in curiosity, and then he’d follow close to Goro’s heels as the man slumped into his bedroom for the night.

That was another thing Goro found both comforting _and_ painful— How he was the one to watch over the cat now, forever hiding his existence from the landlords due to the building’s _no pets allowed_ rule.

“ _Meow_.”

Goro felt the tiny depressions on his bed near him, all before coming to a stop in front of the shirt he held close to his head.

Peering up, he’d find himself locking eyes with bright, azure orbs, Mona’s irises almost glowing in the dark of his bedroom. The cat bent its head forwards to sniff at his shirt, too, and Goro could just about feel him purr at the familiar smell of coffee.

“Meow.”

All he could offer was a hand reaching out to Mona, rubbing his small head until the cat settled down upon the fabric of Goro’s shirt. He’d bunched it up into a little nest the more Goro petted him, all until Goro had to surrender the article to Mona.

There, laying in the quiet of his bedroom, he could only close his eyes and _think_.

Think about the day he had, think about the engine-purr emanating from Mona, think about the past and the puzzle pieces he had in his hands.. It often led him to staying up past the hours he should’ve already been asleep, and thinking back, there was only a small, bittersweet chuckle that left him at the thought of a text sent so long ago, that it almost felt like it happened an eternity past.

_Congratulations, Akira.. You’re actually keeping me up until four in the morning again._

And that was probably when it hit him.

Futaba most likely disappeared on the same night that Akira did.

Futaba, as was clearly obvious, was tech-savvy and knew her way around the web, maybe even around codes and programs.

Akira mentioned once that he had a navigator that recorded all the feedback from his phone, which could only be hijacked by someone who could tweak its inner workings to fit what they wanted it to do.

 _I’m a fucking **idiot**_.

Futaba was most likely Akira’s accomplice, another part of what Nijima called the _people of justice_.

_How didn’t I see it before?!_

He got up and pulled on the black hoodie once more, sneaking out as quietly as he could amidst Mona’s calls to him.

* * *

“ _Start talking._ ”

The apartment was dark when he’d burst through the front door, key left in the lock and the entrance itself still swung open. From the far side of the room, though, a single desk lamp was switched on as Nakura sipped on the whiskey in his glass, feet up on the table, and yet looking out beyond the windows into the sight of Ikebukuro alive late at night.

Even as Goro stomped towards him (his shoes stepping upon the debris of their earlier sparring) the man still made no move to look upon Goro, not giving a single _damn_ all until Goro slammed his hands flat against his desk.

“It’s a nice night out, don’t you think, Little Prince?”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about how nice of a night it is— I want _answers_.”

Nakura turned to him, just _slowly_ , as he took one more sip of his drink.

“You know how our deal works. I trade my information for jobs— and right now, I don’t think I have a single job in mind for the _baby crow_.”

Gods _damn_ this man. He was going to be the _end_ of Goro Akechi.

Slowly, closing his eyes, Goro let a deep breath flow into his lungs. He had to relax here, had to keep his emotions under control— _really_ had to keep his emotions on a tight leash—because Nakura was a fucking asshole, and Goro wasn’t going to get anything out of him unless he used his brain more than his brawn.

It (and Nakura) irritated him more than he could ever articulate, but Goro was also bound by the rules of his game.

He had to calm down.

 _Think_.

“You mentioned giving Arsène a present once,” Goro began, voice evening out, looking straight at Nakura again as the man stared expectantly back at him, “What was it? I already know it’s information, but _what_?”

“You caught on quite late, didn’t you, Little Prince?”

That laugh grated in his ears, making one of his eyes twitch at the mere _sound_.

“He took out a problem of mine, so I gave him the rest of the puzzle pieces he’s been looking for— But I’m _guessing_ that you want the specifics, don’t you?”

 _No shit_.

His arms crossed over his chest, stare still set in a firm glare as he squinted back at Nakura’s wide, _condescending_ grin.

Fucker knew he held all the cards here, and he was using the mere fact to toy with Goro.

“Well..” Nakura began, his voice teasing at the edges of actual _sincerity_ as he finally sat properly now, hands joined upon the table, “You _have_ been working hard for me lately, Little Prince, so a gift _is_ in order..”

“So tell me.”

The speed of which Goro shot back rivalled even that of Nakura’s throwing knives, all with his lips set in a deep frown and with his eyes guarded. It made Nakura chuckle, to which, was Goro’s chagrin.

He saw the man’s lips move, but the words he was saying reached Goro just a second or two too late.

“Wakaba Isshiki— Does that name mean anything to you?”

_Wakaba Isshiki.._

Goro can’t quite say it rang any bells in his head, but the sound of it unsettled him— not in any familiarity, nor in any concrete disdain..  
It was more of it sent chills up his spine, coming from deep within his core. He felt himself want to gag and retch at the sound of those syllables strung together, a part of his head throbbing as the name echoed into the depths of his memories.

Memories, he suspected, were the ones that left a deep, dark abyss in the pit of his brain.

He shook his head, just slightly, as to avoid a worse headache. 

“It should _now_. She’s a researcher, studying a little something called _‘cognitive psience’._ ”

“And she matters to me _because_..?”

Nakura paused at his words, grin creeping wider up his cheeks. He _knew_ it pissed off Goro— because, really, everything about Tatsuya Shimomura pissed him off.  
To be taken in and taught the things that he learned at just _sixteen years old_ by none other than the man sitting before him now— it fucked him up. Goro himself didn’t think much of it at the time (because it was all so he could hunt down names and find the other half of his origin) but the _moment_ Tatsuya Shimomura even _suggested_ that Goro was made to kill.. That he _would_ find himself pulling his trigger aimed at a person’s heart..

Even amongst all the mind games and borderline torture of his years, _that_ was the final straw— the thing that made him snap.

And now, Nakura was doing it again. He was playing with Goro’s stretched-thin patience and just _dangling_ the answers right above Goro’s head, waiting to see if Goro would try and claw at it.

_Fucking **bastard**.. _

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Nakura spoke up once more.

“She matters to you because she conducted experiments in three prefectures years ago— Tokyo, Kawagoe, and Nagano.”

The surprised widen of Goro’s eyes made Nakura snicker, chuckle, which quickly grew into his grating laughter. He fell back against his office chair, a hand over his eyes, as his sickening howls echoed through the high walls of his penthouse— and Goro, caught up in what crumbs he’d been fed, couldn’t even find it in himself to listen much and scowl in hatred.

The white noise constantly stuck on a loop in the back of his head had grown louder, more insistent in beating into his head. Goro knew his consciousness would start to swim if he pushed it.

“ _Nagano_ , where mommy crow brought you. Where you were left until you found your way here.”

“She’s..”

The words were there, just at the tip of his tongue, but Goro wasn’t even aware that his mouth began moving until his eyes focused back on Nakura.

Nakura was looking straight at him, interest spelled clear as day in his eyes.

“She experimented on children, mostly. Orphanage kids. That’s all I know about her.”

 _Bullshit_.

If Nakura was the one that gave Akira the information, then he _knew_ that Goro was subjected to.. To that _pain_ and _suffering_ , the ones that he caught just the quickest of glimpses of, all those months ago.

Nakura knew everything.

He just waited for Goro to click all the pieces together himself.

Goro turned on his heel, almost swaying and more staggering as he made to retreat. He needed to sit in his room, needed Mona to try and calm him down.

 _Fuck_ , he wasn’t even sure if he could make it home like this.

“Before you leave, though— There _is_ still one more thing I can tell you about her.”

But just as he reached the front door again, he stopped. Not even turning to take one, last look at Nakura for the night, the man spoke across the room.

“She has a daughter. Smart girl, a lot like you. Last I heard, she was tossed around her relatives, her uncle.. _Do_ tell Mister Sakura that he did a good job raising her, hm?”

* * *

There were three things he was certain of now:

One, Wakaba Isshiki was the woman in the video.

Two, she was Futaba’s mother.

And three, he needed to find Akira now more than ever.

Though the pieces were still vague and blurry, Goro was starting to connect them together—place what he knew next to what he suspected—and if the words that Akira Kurusu had uttered in complete and utter _fear_ all those months ago weren’t _only_ the ramblings of a man that trembled within an inch of his life, then it meant that Masayoshi Shido was the puppeteer pulling each and every string to his bidding.

Like Joker had called him, Masayoshi Shido was the spider stringing this entire web together.

He could admit, he was either foolhardy or extremely gutsy to show up to the prime minister’s office after the absolute _fiasco_ that was the announcement gala—much more so when Shido hadn’t even reached out to him as his _father_ after the event, no less—but Goro was there, anyway. He sat, cross-legged and proper, amidst the man’s office, his eyes trained on Shido as Shido stared back at him. There was an only-barely-hidden tension looming in the room as their silence stretched, the quiet so loud that it almost felt like it thundered in Goro’s ears.

But he kept his face schooled neutral, kept himself composed. If he could keep a straight face as he tortured the souls out of despicable men and women, then he could keep a straight face as he stared back at his father.

Even as they waited—for the drop of a pin, for the silence to be shattered into pieces, and for either of them to begin speaking—Goro was patient.

Sighing, Shido finally started for the both of them.

“You’re here to talk about the party, I can tell.”

“Well,” Goro began, a small smile etching itself into his cheeks, “It’s the one elephant in the room that we can’t ignore.”

 _Gods_ , did he hate even having to breathe the same air as Shido— but Nakura was right about Goro: He was good at layering the masks onto his face.. Sometimes so much that even Goro himself was convinced by the acts he put on.

Well, he _did_ manage to believe he was just a normal man that danced for a living and had a totally normal upbringing for _years_.

But all plays have to come to an end, don’t they?

“He called himself Joker— And I think we both know by now who was infamous in the red light district with that same alias.”

Shido nodded, solemn in its movement as he stayed by the window.

“Akira Kurusu.. I have to admit, son, your friends are quite interesting.”

“Not much of a friend now when he crashed your party, father.”

The words tasted like acid coming so casually and faux-bitterly, but Goro still bit down on his tongue and held back his glare. There would be a time yet for him to openly express his disdain, but not _now_.

Not when he still had a few trump cards up his sleeve.

“ _Our_ party, Goro,” Shido corrected, a small smile curling up his lips before it fell completely, “He’s a wanted man.”

“I’m well aware,” Goro shot back, humming lowly to himself, “You want him found, as do I.”

“So you _do_ take after me.”

Goro wouldn’t let the (shrivelling, _conniving_ ) laugh that reached his ears make his eye twitch. He could handle Nakura— Shido was _nothing_ in comparison.

“Well, _father_.. Whether he was my friend or not doesn’t matter now. Akira Kurusu is a wanted criminal, and even _if_ I left behind my old job, this one is..”

He paused, letting the word hang onto his tongue. It added more of the tension in air of the room, much so as Goro closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, only to open them again as he sighed.

“.. _Personal_.”

“Understandable. I’ll let the Chief of the Metropolitan police know that you’ll be working alongside them, _Detective_ Akechi— Which reminds me, we’ll be having a conference soon.”

_Knock, knock_

“Ah, that should be it.”

Shido began striding towards the double doors, just as it opened and a head peeked through.

“He’s ready for you, Mister Prime Minister.”

“Will you join us, detective?” Shido asked, head turned just slightly to peer over at Goro. In response, Goro merely shook his head, a small smile carving its way into his cheeks as he stood.

“I should be heading back. Ann and I are planning to hang out soon.”

“Give her my regards, hm?” the man snickered, “She looked lovely during the gala. A shame that I didn’t have the chance to chat with her _or_ your little friends.”

He’ll ignore the fact that Shido _knew_ what she even looked like.

Or the fact that he called them his “ _little friends_ ”.

_We’re all just **ants** to you, aren’t we. _

“I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

With a final laugh, the prime minister soon left, the door behind him clicking with a close.

Only idiots trusted anyone alone in the _prime minister’s_ office— but in the same breath, Goro was thankful for the idiotic sentimentality that sat right in the centre of Shido’s trust in him.

 _Shido’s_ son? Bullshit. Goro would never take up the name, and it was for more reasons that he could count.

Quickly, without wasting a single heartbeat, he found himself bent over the man’s desk once more. His hands gloved, he buried through the photos of the bottommost drawer, didn’t hesitate to press the button now.

_Click_

And from his right, he caught the sound immediately. One of the tall bookshelves pushed against the wall positioned a _bit_ more to the left than he last remembered it.

With his steps light and quiet, Goro made to rearrange the photos back and push the drawer closed before he stalked forwards, steadily creeping closer to the shelf. A gust of wind chilled him once he stood before the smallest of gaps between the shelves, penetrating his core and down to his bones as he set a hand upon the side of the side and pushed.

It gave easily, sliding over into a hollow space behind the shelf next to it— and there, right before his very eyes, was a set of stairs that seemed to stretch into forever. When Goro tried to peer deeper in, all he saw was a never-ending darkness that swallowed the rest of the steps, the metal walls and ceilings sending a colder chill up his spine.

He didn’t have much time on his hands here— No doubt, the chauffeur that usually drove Goro back into Shibuya awaited him just outside the building. If he lingered too long, he’d risk getting caught.

So, gathering his wits, taking a deep breath in to calm the rapid-pace beating in his chest, he descended into the depths.

It was a feeling that was familiar to him— except there was no beat pounding from the soles of his shoes, no music steadily clearing of the wall’s muffle and no bright red lights flashing in his eyes.

There was nothing but _darkness_ and _silence._

It swallowed him whole, Goro only relying on the rails to keep himself steady. The more he descended, the farther away the entrance seemed to be— all until Goro couldn’t even see the light of the outside seeping in through the doorway anymore when he looked over his shoulder.

The descent felt like an eternity before Goro saw red— a singular bulb that stuck out just above a metal door at the very bottom of the steps.

He wondered if he should turn back now, if it was worth it to investigate further.

The tugging in his core (like a string that pulled him forwards, a calling that _urged_ him to keep moving closer) brought him to the door anyway.

Goro was quick to bend down and peer closer to a number pad fixed beside the entrance, where its doorknob should’ve been if it _had_ one. It looked to be a sliding door like the one Goro entered through earlier, and prying it open didn’t seem like a possibility if he didn’t have his tools.

Bringing his phone out, he’d shine the flashlight onto the pad, squinting to see which keys were scratched or worn out.

_1.. 2.. 6.. 8.. 9… 0.. Amateurs._

The display above the number pad glowed with eight spaces, separated in two, two, then four. It was easy enough to guess that it was looking for a date to be unlocked— but time was running out.

Gods only knew how much time Goro wasted already going down those godforsaken stairs.

There were a number of dates that popped into Goro’s head (the _2_ and _0_ having a large enough pool as they were in terms of years) but he still stood there, almost glaring at the display that glowed back at him.  
It was wholly possible to have been the day that Shido first got elected— and so Goro wracked his brain for the exact date.

_It was December the twenty-fifth.._

But the number five looked unused. Four years later, the prime minister was re-elected on the exact same day. He didn’t want to take his chances punching in an unsure guess, when the lock might’ve been rigged with an alarm should he make _one_ wrong move.

_1\. 2. 6. 8. 9. 0._

Those numbers stared back at him the more Goro thought.

_December.. January.. February.. June.._

But then it hit him.

_There’s no way._

He aligned the numbers together in his head.

_There’s no fucking way._

His finger hovered above the pad.

 _There’s no fucking way in the deepest wrung of fucking **Hell**_.

Gods _dammit_ all he was taking the biggest risk here. The ringing in his head made it harder to think and the speed-race pounding in his chest made it harder to breathe.

But Goro punched the date in anyway.

06\. 02. 1998.

_Beep_

And the door slid open before his very eyes.

Why would the date of his birth be Shido’s passcode?

Goro couldn’t hear much except the double-time pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the white noise stuck in his head. He ventured into the room presented before him, the breath stuck in his lungs with each step further he took.  
Though it was dimly-lit within, the path forward was surrounded by a faint blue contained inside glass cylinders—which seemed to fill the room in rows and columns all throughout its sides—and Goro didn’t want to get any closer once his eyes laid upon the first container he saw. He felt himself want to wretch at the sight of it all, having to stop by the door as he doubled over and into himself.

Floating, some intact and some barely-recognisable as such, were human brains.

From what little he could see where he stood, the containers closer to the walls held severed heads with their spinal cords connected to the cylinder’s base, suspended amongst the same blue fluid that filled each container in the room. Goro could faintly hear a distant hum surround him, low and drawling and making the white noise in his ears spike up tenfold.

It was only by the gods’ good graces that he managed to swallow down the vomit clawing up his oesophagus— but when he finally lifted his head, he was almost entranced by the body parts floating around him.

He didn’t know what it was, couldn’t put a name to it: _Fear_ , maybe? _Curiosity_? Or was it simply a much too shocking sight to tear his eyes away from, like a trainwreck that you just can’t help but bask in?

Goro has seen shit—has perpetrated a sizeable fraction of said shit—but bloody guts and innards could never compare to the sheer _inhumanity_ of what these cylinders suggested.

Human experimentation.

It wasn’t enough to take their lives; The people that did this— _Masayoshi Shido_ —had to desecrate what remained, had to torture them even in death.

It was sick.

But just because the gods hated Goro Akechi, this was only the beginning.

From a ways down the room, he spotted another cylinder, isolated from all the others by a glass wall. It was much larger than the rest, and instead of pale, icy blue, there was nothing but a sickly yellow fluid housing what seemed to be an entire _body_.

_Shido, you sick fuck.._

Goro trudged forwards, his footsteps quiet and his movements stealthy, as how Nakura basically _forced_ into his system again. There was still the thing where his heart felt like it sat inside his stomach, but he wasn’t going to be a little bitch and stop now— not when he was already _this_ deep in Hell.

Not when there was still that string tugging him ever forwards.

But maybe he should’ve listened to the small voice in his head telling him to turn back.

Maybe he should’ve listened to his anxieties.

Because the closer he got, the more his eyes widened— The more he felt the air leave his lungs and the more his footsteps hurried until he was going on a full sprint to the end of the room.  
His hands met with the glass as soon as he got within arm’s length of the transparent wall, head clouded with too many thoughts and too many words, the breath knocked out of his lungs, his heartbeat feeling as if it’d come to a dead _stop_.

There was no way.

There was no possible way in Hell.

But Goro decided, in that one moment, that Hell was far better than the living realm— for when he saw familiar, brown locks floating amidst the fluid, and saw the face that was so very, undeniably _identical_ to his own, the tears came before he could stop them.

“M..”

It was his mother.

What was she doing here?

 _Why_ was she trapped in that container?

Goro had to get her out of that thing.

Goro _needed_ to get her safe.

That was the only thing that mattered.

His fists began pounding onto the glass before he could even think about a plan.

_Fuck a plan—_

Exactly.

_I NEED TO GET HER OUT!_

That was all he needed to do.

But no matter how hard he slammed his knuckles upon the barrier, not a single crack formed underneath them.

There had to be a switch somewhere here—something that could either open it or break through the thick glass—but instead of any buttons on the walls, all Goro caught in his panicked state of mind were two doors: One on the far left, and one on the far right.

Black and white.

He headed to the black door first.

If he were thinking straight, he maybe would’ve begun to question why it was unlocked— but logic didn’t really matter to him now. He burst through the door, darted towards the first desk he saw, and rummaged through the contents of its drawers.

Papers splayed across the floor and the desk was kicked onto its side by the time he was finished with it, finding nothing and growing more frustrated by the second.

It was a cycle of rinse and repeat with five other desks before Goro’s impatience got the better of him. Blood trickled down his lip with how hard he bit down on it during his search, hands balled into white-knuckled fists as he stood in the middle of the small room. Soon, he came to the small realisation that his chest heaved in and out in deep, angered breaths, and with nothing else to look through, he grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and brought it back outside.

“Take a step back, mother.”

_SMASH_

It broke into splinters upon colliding with the glass— not a dent nor a scratch made on the latter.

Maybe a gun would’ve done it.

If only he brought one.

_THINK!_

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t even hear anything, couldn’t even see outside of the tunnel vision he focused on his mother trapped behind that wall.

Grabbing his hair, he tugged at the fine, brown locks similar to those floating amongst that sickly yellow, eyes squeezing shut beneath the deep furrow of his brows.

He had to do something— he had to _figure something out_.

But before Goro Akechi could even move a single step to the other door again, he heard it.

_Click_

The cock of a gun.

“Now, now, professor. No need to be so brash.”

“ ** _You_** _._.”

He uttered out that single word with a throat feeling like sandpaper and a head turned over his shoulder. Once he caught sight of Masayoshi Shido, though, Goro pressed his back against the glass, hands splayed across the transparent wall to protect his mother.

Shido nodded to his right, almost as if coaxing whoever held the gun to his head to calm down.

Yet still, Goro wouldn’t take his eyes off of this _scum_.

“I know what this looks like,” Shido began, voice even and calm— matching the bastardly expression painted across his damnable face.

“Like _Hell_ you know what this looks like to me, you fucking bastard.”

“I promise you, Goro.. _Son_ ”—Goro seethed at that word, shook his head as he kept his fists from shaking—“That this is for the betterment of everyone.”

“ _The betterment of everyone_ , my fucking _ass_.”

“Calm down, Goro.”

_This fucking BITCH._

“LIKE _SHIT_ I’LL CALM DOWN!” His voice echoed off the walls, so loud and enraged Goro was faintly surprised each glass cylinder hadn’t shattered in that exact moment. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER?! WHY IS MY MOTHER HERE?!”

Shido remained quiet as he yelled, face so composed that it looked like he was merely listening to someone talk to him about the most mundane things.

Knowing him, Goro just _knew_ that this was just another mundane, insignificant little thing beneath his shoe.

Goro banged one fist against the glass, body still very much pressed against it.

“ANSWER ME!”

He could feel every hair on the back of his neck stood straight, knew that his teeth bared and his nails scraped against the glass behind him so hard that he wouldn’t be surprised if he was already bleeding. A total contrast to him, Shido never looked bothered— never once twitched in annoyance nor furrowed his brows in anger.

He was calm. Composed. And it angered Goro the more silence stretched between them, thundering in his head and making the white noise stuck in his ears all the more apparent.

Finally, after just a few seconds and one more glance to Goro’s left, he let out a sigh.

“This is so everyone can be reconnected with who they’ve lost, Goro— Your mother and _us_ included.”

“What did you do to her..” Goro uttered, his words set in a permanent growl.

To that, _something_ changed on Shido’s face— a little bit of shame, a little bit of _regret_.

But for him to have done this to Goro’s mother.. And then play make-believe to be Goro’s so-called “ _loving father_ ”..

There was no possible way in Hell that Shido felt any of those things.

_It’s a façade. I **know** you. _

“I admit, it was unnecessary for her death to happen”—fucker had the _gall_ to smile at him—"But it’s what kickstarted Miss Isshiki’s research!”

 _Isshiki_.

Goro snapped his head to the left.

“And I promise you, Goro, that this is for the better.”

But just as soon as he’d caught dark hair and a white lab coat..

“I just can’t have you interfering when we’re on the last phase.”

.. He felt a sting on his neck.

“This is all for you. I promise.”

The _clicks_ and _clacks_ of footsteps neared him.

“You’re the one making this possible!”

And it was all before Goro realised he was looking at the floor, cheek pressed against too-cold tiles.

“.. Was it necessary for me to tranquilise him?”

“It was.”

Goro was losing consciousness, the corners of his vision turning dark— _closing_ around him.

“But he’s too important.”

_Too important.._

He fought against it, managed to scrap his head up and glare at Shido— even as the man never spared him another glance, until..

“I can’t lose _him_ , too.”

The darkness bled around his world, and the last thing Goro Akechi heard was the hum of a woman with a voice that sent daggers stabbing into his brain.

* * *

He smells like coffee now, and it’s such a painful reminder— as much as it was also a comfort.

Café Leblanc hadn’t changed much. Even through the years that Goro had been coming there, the outside was still simple, still draped with the red and white canopy, flanked by chalkboard signs, the interior still beholding the same, rustic aesthetic. That warm and comfy atmosphere that drew Goro within the first time around was still present in the air, and though the establishment was one familiar barista short now, Goro could still recognise Café Leblanc as a second home, Sojiro as a wise, comforting friend— a father figure, even.

The man himself was busy behind the counter, wiping away the smooth, polished surface as Goro made himself useful by lending a helping hand on the booths. Amongst the spices of his locally-renowned curry and the tantalising scent of rich coffee, Boss’ cigarette had mingled with Leblanc’s unique smell, and coupled with the low, droning noise of the TV, Goro’s mind was blank and his hands moved on their own accord.

He’d stopped thinking about things much when he stepped through the door of the café. Leblanc was akin to a sanctuary away from the mess of his subconscious, finding himself passing the hours easily with coffee and a good book to his name.  
The conversations about mundane things and existential late-night thoughts shared with a man who _used_ to be ever-present here, who had dark curls and almost-comically-large glasses resting on the bridge of his nose— who smiled such a blinding smile that the sun would be jealous, who disappeared all those months ago only to re-emerge and absolutely _wreck_ what dregs of normalcy that Goro had turned into a routine without his presence.

And now, he smells like coffee.

“Hey, Boss?”

Sojiro looked up at him from the counter, a question in his eyes.

“You think maybe you should hire an exterminator sometime? I think there are rats in the attic.”

Goro was hit with a sense of déjà vu upon voicing the thought.

_Strange.._

“Ah, I’ll get to it,” Sojiro snickered, just quietly, “Damn rats have been there for a while.”

The only response he gave to the man was a satisfied smile, all before he stood back upright from the table and brought the rag over to the sink.

But then his phone buzzed, playing a ringtone that sent chills up his spine.

“Is it alright if I take this?” he asked, peering over his shoulder to look back on Sojiro. There was a faint ache on his neck as he turned his head, and Goro thought that maybe he shouldn’t show up to tonight’s sparring session. It was taking a toll on his body already.

Sojiro merely nodded out to the front door.

“Go ahead and get home, kid. I can handle the rest from here.”

“Are you sure?”

Goro was already taking off his apron anyway— green and familiar. It belonged to somebody else, once upon a time ago.

“I’m sure,” the man nodded.

“I’ll be off then. Thank you for today, Boss.”

* * *

“Did you know that crows are actually fairly good team members? They like to notify other corvids in the area about oncoming threats where they last were.”

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?”

Nakura was a strange one, he knew that from the beginning. From his twisted sense of morals, to his cryptic messages, that was pretty much the conclusion he’d come to even after _one_ job done for him.

And now, here he was again— Back in the penthouse of a tall apartment complex in Ikebukuro, sitting on a sofa that looked like it was on its last legs. Maybe notably, there seemed to be less furniture in the home than when he was last here, but maybe it was just Joker’s memory becoming fuzzy.

It’d been such a long time already, so of course he was bound to misremember a few things here or there.

“Just a crow fact for you, dear Arsène— Or should I start calling you _Joker_ now?”

“It doesn’t really matter to me,” he shrugged, a deep breath taken in through his nose before, “So what’s the job?”

“Patience— Now’s not the time for us to talk about the specifics just _yet._ ”

“Look, all I know is that you _baited_ me here telling me you have information on an _Akechi_ from Nagano. I think I have all the specifics I need to do whatever the fuck it is you want me to do.”

“Impatient. You really _do_ fit each other,” Nakura chuckled, one finger tapping upon the surface of his desk, “You’ll be working with a partner— an apprentice of mine. I think you’ll work well together, but I do have to apologise in that he’s _rusty_.”

Akira spared him a glance, arms crossed over his chest.

“You know I already have a partner to work with.”

Nakura hummed, head lolling to one side.

“But he’s been _dying_ to meet you, I could see it in his eyes. You’ve been popular in the underground for a long time now, you know— and he’s a fan.”

_There’s no getting through to him, is there?_

Leaning back (or at least, as much as the couch looked like it could handle) a sigh found its way slipping past his lips, all as Akira closed his eyes and brought a hand up to pluck the mask off his eyes. With the world plunged into darkness around him, he began to massage his temple, groaning just under his breath.

_Damn tinnitus.._

“I didn’t think there would ever be a fan of a thief.”

“Oh, but he’s not a fan of that.” He’d said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it forced an eye peered open to look back to Nakura. “He didn’t even know you were famous as _Arsène_ until he came back to me.”

“Then who—”

_SLAM_

Nakura chuckled once more, sitting up now, as his hands joined atop the table.

“Speak of the Devil!”

“Alright fuckface, what is it _this_ ti..”

But the words died on his tongue the moment those red eyes caught on Akira’s figure, dressed in his usual suit but with the domino mask that was so familiar.

Akira himself stood the moment he recognised that voice, gloved hands curling and unfurling by his sides as he tried to make sense of _what the absolute **fuck** _was happening. His jaw slacked, mouth agape, as his eyes widened more and more upon the silhouette cloaked in all black.

“Meet your partner for the job!” Nakura _howled_ , his laughter echoing off the tall walls of the apartment.

“Joker, may I introduce you to the _one_ , the _only_ — Crow!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy motherfUCK THIS CHAPTER TOOK ME SO LONG TO FINISH GOD FUCKING  
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 
> 
> i'm so sorry i just dipped for like,,, almost two months there y'all im just like  
> aaaaaaaaaaa ???????
> 
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> i just recently opened [commissions](https://twitter.com/relictionism/status/1291621576903811072) !! and honestly it was a whole-ass r i d e tryna figure out how to write this chapter with the whole lab scene askjdfhsd  
> plus i think i was just getting hung up on "holy fuck im not gonna make the 10k word count am i" but like  
> honestly ? at this point in time ??? im just here for the ride. fuck wordcounts, we goin down no matter how long the chapters are but like--  
> THIS SHIT IS GETTING JUICY  
> AND S P I C Y  
> and again, i'm so sorry for taking so long with this one aaaaaaa 
> 
> but yeah !! :^D  
> what happened to akc ? :^DDD 
> 
> find out when i get the next chapter out ASKJFDHD 
> 
> listen list !!  
> rxdlxst - i can't forget you  
> bts - run  
> joji - demons


	6. 0.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a talk.

hey. eyrist here.

so this is looking kinda familiar huh? reminds me back in december when i did the exact same thing lmao

here's uh,, a thing i guess.

so it's no real secret that i've kinda been,, _iffy_ ,, with writing as of late. honestly, it's been feeling less like a fight between me, god, and the word doc, and more like a war between me and my own head in regards to writing. i've already word-vomitted about it on twitter, so i'm not going to waste either of our time here recapping.

look fam, let's face the music-- i've been feeling like i'm falling out of love with writing. you probably don't want that and i sure as hell don't either, so we're going to be doing a thing here. i'm going to go on a (semi?) hiatus again.

i don't know for how long exactly, but for now i'll be focusing on zines and the comm i've got lined up, possibly the goro big bang if my brain at minimal capacity can handle it. i'm going to be taking a break from multichaps (yeah, this includes like oil and water, too-- i'll be making an announcement on that fic as well) until i feel like i'm back in the right state of mind to continue,, _all of this_.

after that? who knows, maybe i'll be able to finish seeking our silence this year. maybe i'll get like oil and water done faster. maybe i'll take another break again after finishing this two-book series. all that i'm really sure of is that i don't want to fall out of love with writing, and that i don't plan on stopping any time soon.

all this is, is a break; a pause.  
an interlude.

so i'll see y'all when i see y'all. thank you so much for keeping up with both mixing and matching and seeking our silence. i appreciate it a lot, but numbers are a bitch and a half and they're getting to my head.

thanks guys. love you.

_oh_ , but i'm not going to leave you hanging, of course. here's a preview of what track 34 is going to look like, from the draft i haven't finished writing yet.

* * *

Partner.

It was such a vague word to describe so many possible things.

For one, it could be used to describe someone’s romantic significant other— the tell-tale “ _love of my life_ ”, or some other. Girlfriend. _Boyfriend_. The one who was held dearest to someone’s heart; On the other hand, though, _partner_ could be used to refer to an accomplice— one’s “ _partner in crime_ ” or “ _teammate_ ”. The one you (sometimes begrudgingly and other times wholeheartedly) entrusted your life with, to have your back, to fight with you to the end.

Those two things sounded so awfully familiar to each other, that it was more than confusing trying to distinguish them. Though some might say that they were stark contrasts (like _black_ and _white_ ), he had other thoughts.   
In that moment, partner ( _significant other_ ) and partner ( _accomplice_ ) were like two shades of grey, so impossibly close that it was getting hard to tell that them apart— _see_ that they were two, entirely different colours.

Sitting there, with his feet dangling hundreds of feet above the ground, Akira Kurusu didn’t know which shade of grey _he_ fitted into.


End file.
